East Wind
by Blue eyes Red heart
Summary: Selfless love is harder than Hermione imagined, particularly when it comes to her childhood friend Sherlock. Sherlock was always searched for her even if he didn't remember who she was. His search has lead him to the one thing he swore he would never have...a real job
1. Chapter 1

**Leaky Caldron**

A memory lingered on the fringe of Sherlock's mind. A constant companion on all his adventures.

Memories he kept to himself, ones that he never spoke of or acknowledged existed.

But there were times his head would whip around, his heart beating frantically in hope until his eyes beheld the crashing disappointment that always followed. That was the worst part of it because, just as he once more began to accept the logical conclusion, something would spark that disillusion irrational want of hope. He would never get closure, and because of that he could never completely let her go, no matter how many years passed in every crowd, in every case he was still searching for his childhood summer friend.

He had known her for a grand total of six weeks of his life. One week a year for six years he had a friend until she and her family vanished without a trace never to be seen or heard from again. That was ten years ago, ten years of searching, ten years of disappointment, and ten years without one lead or clue because as far as anyone in England was concerned Hermione Granger did not nor ever has exists.

Yet he had known her and could not stop seeing her just out of his eye line in every crowd in every case.

Over time he began to wonder if Hermione only lived in his imagination.

His parents claimed he had an active imagination as a child, something he purged from his adult life. Still there were times he would recall more of the elusive memory like her eyes deep, brown, so kind and intelligent. She always wore dresses, the skirt swaying in the breeze like a delicate bell. The way she would bite her lower lip when she was in deep concentration. And that first day in the forest, her crouched down in boots, skirt tucked into her belt as she examined a little beetle she held delicately in her hand. Other memories surfaced through the years, memories of the girl, recollections he couldn't possibly have dreamt up.

He was sitting in a bar his thoughts turning back to the man he was surveying, his very own potential stocker. This man had been watching him for weeks now, and Sherlock was determined to find out why.

The man was the same age as Sherlock himself, untidy black hair and unkempt clothes made him appear disinterested of his surroundings. At first glance the man looked approachable completely unthreatening, but all one had to do was look at his eyes. They were filled with death and a hardness that could not be mistaken. The easy smile on the man's face made him look friendly but he had seen war, had killed and would do it again.

Sherlock waved the bartender over ordering another drink as the target waved someone over. Sherlock casually looked behind him observing the gangly red head that was strode over to the dark haired man. They greeted each other with a friendly hug and the red hair man ordered himself a drink as he took the chair next to the dark hair man with glasses.

They talked and ate for twenty minutes then they got up and walked to the back of the establishment. Sherlock followed keeping to the shadows stalking them through an open arch way and into a crowded alley.

Truth was they must have known they were being followed both vanishing into the crowd before the detective's eyes he couldn't track either and the more he searched the more the oddity of his situation became apparent.

Because he was lost.

No really Sherlock Holmes was lost somewhere in central London. A city he knew like the back of his hand, every obscene little back alley, and secret archive he had made himself familiar with so that there was nowhere to hide, not from Sherlock Holmes: or at least so he thought.

But in the back of an obscure little bar and through a brick arch way were old and cobbled roads familiar yet unique in the irregularity of the path, little shops smashed up against one another of brick, wood, glass, and stone. A whole knew universe that Sherlock had scarcely imagined existed in such a compact area. Many of the shop's architectural structure simply made no sense, logically there was no way many of the building should be erect particularly the large marble white one that read Gringotts Bank at the end of the alley way. The people were just as odd as the buildings, dressed funny in colorful cloaks and pointy hats. A woman with a purple hat a slick black cat in her arms, a dark haired man in an emerald green robe gripping a broom like he intended to ride it like a stick horse, a child with yellow hair gesturing excitedly at sweets in a window as his parent drags him past.

The air smelled of potent herbs and animal waste Sherlock turned taking in all the little shops; the sweet shop was Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, there was also a shop that had strange looking creature in its window named Magical Menagerie, a book store with a fascinating display window of motion book covers, an apothecary, and shop that sold only brooms each claiming to be faster than the last.

It's the red hair that catches the detective eye as Sherlock weaves through the crowd ducking into a joke shop of unparalleled quality. It's packed from wall to wall with children eager to spend money. Their excitement buzzing around the room. Sherlock's attention never wavering from the red head man that had been with his suspect. The man hoists himself up sliding over the counter skillfully, before donning an apron. An employee, Sherlock muses, surveying the shop for his suspect, the red head man no longer important.

There were too many people, not just children but adults ranging in shape and size. Sherlock pushed through the crowd looking at every face, as he did so. He had lost the suspect completely; this wasn't a first but it certainly did not get easier with time.

He turned deciding that perhaps the suspect worked in a different shop and the two men had met for lunch, pushing his way back up to the door. A woman stood there her brown hair pinned up, and when Sherlock caught himself from nearly bowling her over he stopped short staring at her in disbelief hope. The pretty heart shaped face and big quizzically brown eyes looked as startled as he must. She was wearing a dress, a sweater dress with leggings and boots. She looked beautiful and more importantly alive and very real.

Just like that his mission was forgot. He takes a step forward his hand raising as if to touch her just to prove he wasn't dreaming. He began to whisper her name, a name he had not put voice to in such a long time, "Her…" Sherlock is cut short, at a man yelling, "Stupify!" behind him, the detective crumples to the ground unable to stop the full impact of the fall.

 **1988- Good Morning**

He was purposely getting the crap beat out of him by Karl Price. A boy twice his size and only slightly his elder. Karl knew how to throw a punch and Sherlock knew how to take one.

Mycroft had saw to that.

Sherlock was nine and wanted nothing more in the world than to have friends. Karl Price, however, wanted nothing more than to torment the town outsider. Being home schooled did not endear the young Holmes boys to the other children, they lacked social niceties that one learns with proper socialization that neither boy had received from their parents.

This particular fight was an experiment; how far would Karl go before stopping on his own accord.

Sherlock had been a punching bag for the last four minutes and 43 seconds, and Karl was showing no signs of fatigue let alone compassion. Karl's goons had stopped their encouraging taunts 30 seconds ago, their facial expressions ranging from morbid curiosity to outright disgust. Sherlock decided to give it another two minutes before he proved just how capable he was compared to this stupid jock.

The only sound was of Karl's fist hitting a young Sherlock. He staying quiet refusing to put voice to his pain as fist pounding into him again and again. Sherlock's silence only seemed to encourage Karl and when Sherlock smiled up at the bully, blood running down the younger boy's face, the rage that blossomed in Karl's expression was a precious treasure that young Sherlock would cherish for a long time.

Sherlock heard the little footstep on the gravel, saw the small girl with wild brown curls clinching a large book to her chest approaching from behind the bully. "Stop!" The girl's voice was loud and demanding, not an ounce of fear showed on her pretty little face.

Karl turned his body coiling in an unnatural way as if he had no control over obeying. His fist paused mid hit, his grip still on Sherlock as he looked back at the girl.

"Let him go." She commanded and surprisingly Karl obeyed releasing Sherlock. The bullie's expression scared and angry as he looked down at his shaking hands then back up at the girl.

She smiled haughtily, her straight posture with an air of superiority. "You will not touch him again. You will leave him alone." She demands and Karl's expression went from bewilderment to seething rage.

The girl began to tap her foot impatiently waiting for the bully's confirmation, seemingly ignorant of her own peril as she raises her chin defiantly at the bully.

"Who the hell are you?" Karl sneered, popping his knuckles menacing.

Her eyes flashed and her haughty smile turned down right arrogant. "Jean Reau's granddaughter."

The bullies' face paled and he took a few step away from the girl.

Sherlock shook his head, picking himself up off the ground as the bully and his goons turned tail and ran away.

The girl was suddenly there at young Sherlock's elbow, her hand on his arm invading his personal space without permission as she attempted to help him up.

He shrugged her off not needing her help of sympathy.

She glared at him stepping away as if hurt by his silent rejection.

"You shouldn't pick fights. Violence doesn't solve anything. Whatever your quarrel with Karl Price can hardly be worth the beating you just took." The girl's know-it-all tone encouraging Sherlock to smile ruefully.

"What I should use my words? That is what got me in trouble to begin with. Karl takes office when people use words he doesn't understand, like the, a, of, and to. Besides what would a girl know of such things with your dolls and nail polish. I didn't need your help I had everything under control." He bites out still unbelieving that Karl would give up so easily.

The girl tilted her head eyeing him shrewdly. "No doubt, but I was more concerned about your plans for Karl." She didn't seem as offended as Sherlock had hoped.

This took young Sherlock by surprise. "Why would you concern yourself with him?"

She was taking his measurements. It was a look of scrutiny Sherlock was all too familiar with and put him on defense.

This girl had no right to look at him like that.

"My grandma likes to remind me that people peak at different times in their lives. Karl Price is still a little boy, you however…" Her words trail off and she is shaking her head, turning as if to walk away without another word. "An infant."

"Am not!" He shouts at her. "The witch you mean, your grandmother." He snickers. "The idiot bully still believes in magic and make belief and you defend him when I'm that one that was getting knocked around? Well neither you or your crazy grandmother concern me. In fact, next time you can mind your own business and keep walking."

"Oh Sherlock, for such a smart boy, you are incredibly stupid." She tells him turning her back on him, leaving him to contain with his own wounds.

It doesn't dawn on him until he is sneaking in the back door of his home, trying to stay out of his mother's eye line that while the girl had known his name, no introduction had been made, and he did not know hers.

The next day Sherlock sneeks out of the house before his parents can see him and ultimately the proof of his fight. He puts Redbeard on a leash deciding to take his best friend on a walk. It was a cover as he made his way through the field behind his house and up the road towards the coast where Jean Reau's little cottage sat.

It was said the old woman was a witch brewing potions and cures for anything from the common cold to a broken heart. Only the most desperate or foolish set foot on her door step. Sherlock had seen her a few times in town, she was younger than he supposed a witch ought to be, perhaps fifty. She had dark brown hair with the slightest streak of gray at her right temple.

Sherlock was fascinated with the mystery she posed. Why was she deemed a witch and what was it that people feared about her because there was certainly no such thing as magic.

If his mother had always been an older mother, this woman a young grandmother. There was an authority in the _witch's_ air and a shrewdness about her that reminded young Sherlock of the girl he had run into.

From the similarities in the swoop of the nose and color of hair, the depth of knowledge in the eyes, and the girls bravery that must have come from a touch of her grandmother's own madness.

Jean Reau was already in the garden behind her house at work, a gray cat stalking mice close by. The woman had a sun hat on, her hands gloved as she worked pulling up weeds as she hummed to herself. Redbeard strained against the leash; the hound's eye on the cat and an idea formed in his head as he let the leash slip from his grip.

Redbeard darted off straight for the cat, who turned with a mean hiss and swat of its paw standing it's ground. Jean swooped in grabbing the dog's leash holding Redbeard back as the cat arched it's back and makes another brave swat with its front paw claws drawn.

Redbeard ducks back clearly a coward, allowing Jean to restrain him. "That was a cruel trick, boy." The woman observed looking over to where Sherlock is running up as if to intervene. "No need for games, all you had to do was say, Good morning." The woman locked her gaze firmly on Sherlock and he felt properly scolded. He nodded silently taking the leash of his dearest friend from the witch woman. "There, there. Pat him, pet him. Let him know you are sorry for his distress. Show him you care." Jean instructs watching with shrewd eyes as Sherlock does as she instructs.

"She is not here." Jean states when Redbeard has stopped shivering turning her attention back to her garden.

"Who?" Sherlock ask not wanting to put into words what he refuses to acknowledge. The witch seems to understand.

She sighs exasperated. "I told her the story of how the beetle got her colors this morning. She will be in the wood just down there were the fallen birch lays." Jean points to the west and dismissing the boy and dog.

Sherlock stands there arguing with himself watching the mean old cat dart under the house, before making his decision. Turning abruptly and marching towards the woods, Redbeard at his side.

 **Addict**

He awoke with a headache, a pair of polished black shoes in his eye line. The detective curses as he pulls himself up off the floor wiping the saliva off his cheek with the back of his hand.

"Where is the list?" Mycroft asks sternly leaning on his knees hand out stretched expectantly. Sherlock looks around the floor, checks the breast pocket of his coat, where he normally puts it only to find it empty. The detective doesn't recall taking anything but the nasty headache and sharpness of the dream he suffered suggested otherwise.

He had gone down deeper than he thought possible. It had felt so real, he touched his face expecting to find dried blood and a dull throb from bruising. He was fine, no bodily harm.

It had felt so real.

Sherlock shrugs absently running a hand through his hair.

Mycroft clears his throat, preparing for a well rehearse lecture for his baby brother. "The system is there for a reason. How am I supposed to help you if you don't make a list?" Mycroft bites out, the inquiry controlled and harsh.

It was how his brother showed he cared.

"NO list, no drugs." Sherlock barks back, Mycroft's voice only hurting his head more.

Mycroft sits back in John's chair his beady eyes assessing.

"I didn't take anything, now get out." Sherlock shakes his head not needing this right now.

the detective needed to keep a hold of his dream, and figure out what the hell did happened last night. He was out chasing a lead, but other than that he remembered nothing and the dream was slipping from his conscious mind.

He stood abruptly and marched into his room, searching for the hidden note book. He needed to record it all while it was fresh. He slams his bedroom door to cutting off whatever Mycroft was preparing to say.

Sherlock pulled a text book from the shelf and opened it up quickly scribbling down the pieces he remembered exactly as he recalled, even the parts that seemed ridiculous. It all meant something. He read over the last entry, then he places the journal back in its hiding spot grabbing clean clothes and heading for the shower.

The front door opened then close, Mycroft letting himself out of the flat.

John is sitting in his chair with a sharp expression when Sherlock emerges fully dressed intending to once more visit the name of the bar in the journal. He pauses mid-step looking to his friend, "Rinelle." Sherlock says aloud comprehending the reason for John's silent senor.

"I waited four hours, by myself. I knew after the first half hour that you forgot. But I kept expecting for you to show up, Rinelle wasn't happy and like an idiot I kept making excuses thinking you would remember and eventually show up. Did you lose your phone?" The doctor asked, standing digging into his pocket pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Sherlock.

Sherlock pats himself down realizing he must have; his phone was gone. "What's this?" Sherlock asks holding the paper up shaking his head, hoping he lost his mobile in the pub.

"The receipt." John states monotone.

Sherlock shrugs tucking the receipt in his pocket, he will have Mycroft reimburse his friend.

There is silence between the two men, Sherlock observes John's attempt to calm down before the doctor speaks, "No list. Mycroft, told me…about this morning. What good are safe guards if you don't follow them?" John spits out angrily. That ferocious expression as he points at the detective.

"No list, no drugs." Sherlock states plainly, internalizing his irritation. "I assure you I am clean. I was on my way out to retrace my steps; I seem to have miss placed my phone."

John raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "Then where were you last night if not blacked out here like Mycroft claims?"

It's Sherlock turn to be silent thinking of how to answer this, because for the life of him he can't remember. Last night is gone, not just a foggy mess of vague recollections. He had completely blacked out, yet there had not been a list. This was not the first time but in the past year it was curiously becoming more and more frequent.

The safe guard had been actively in place for ten years, Sherlock had never once forgot the list since that first time. Not until a few weeks back.

Now it was becoming habit. But theses black outs were different than anything he had experienced before.

"I don't remember." He finally puts voice to and John now looks not only disbelieving but furious.

"Isn't that convenient."

"Amnesia is hardly convenient. I have taken to keeping a journal. Last night's entry implies I had a lead on a stalker case and went on a stake out only to wake up this morning with no recollection of what transpired and rather nasty headache that your shrieking is not helping."

John is shaking his head. "Molly is one her way." The doctor states as calmly as a worried friend can be given the circumstances.

"Why?" Sherlock bellows, but with a pointed look from his friend it's isn't a huge leap of imagination to assume why the coroner was on her way. Once more Sherlock gets to piss in a cup.

 **Survey Says**

The courtroom was packed with magical officials; the three department heads for Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office sat with sour expressions, twelve officials from improper use of Magic office sat with quill in hand ready to take down notes, a group of Aurors sat to left of the proceeding including the head of the department, Harry Potter, and all fifty members of the Wisengamot sat in their plum colored robes to the right. In the whole congregation was a single representative of muggle relations; she sat straight back in the middle of the room under the scrutiny of her peers most of which were traditional idealist with old prejudice and a short sightedness that never seemed to change no matter how hard she worked at opening their eyes. The proceedings were being over seen by Marcia McDonald the newly appointed head of Magical Law enforcement, a position that Hermione had turned down twice, which given her circumstance had probably been a wise decision.

They didn't like to be questioned their traditions challenged and it's because of this Hermione Granger, herself was facing the courts.

"It has come to our attention, that you have conspired, multiple times to cover up a threat to the Statues of Secrecy." Marcia's voice is loud the whole room on the edge of their seat as she begins the proceedings.

"One muggle man hardly seems a threat to a traditional system that has been around for thousands of years." Hermione replies an arrogance in her tone that does not go unnoticed.

"I have it on good authority that he has breached the magical barriers no less than three times in the last few weeks, all said breaches were handled by you, Miss Granger. Please tell the courts, how a simple muggle man with a supposed memories wipe keeps stumbling into our world. Since these incidents were not taken through the proper channels you can see how one might become suspicious of your involvement." Marcia asked in a no nonsense tone, the accusations blatant.

Hermione tried not to huff, the indignity of the unspoken accusations was ridiculous. "Obviate, as is standard practice. A suitable memory to take its place. I did consult the Auror department."

"Hum… yes I see here you reported the latest incident to Harry Potter. You know of course that the Auror department does not handle muggle mind wipes, nor does your own." Marcia comments thumbing through the papers on her desk. "Now can you tell the courts your relationship with the muggle. What put him on the path of his pursuit of our world?" Hermione knew she was being lead, next this woman would bring up her parents.

"My relationship?" Hermione scoffed. "He was a boy that lived in the same neighborhood as my grandmother, we played together once or twice as children. He saw me in a shop having tea with Minerva McGonagall and tracked me down to my apartment. I wiped his memory the moment I realized what happened."

Marcia's eyes narrowed and several of the Wisengamot cast her suspicious looks. "Why wouldn't you have just talked to the man, the exchange seemed simple enough. He knew nothing of magic at the time."

Hermione glared, if they just considered the question for a moment they would know the answer. Her personal affairs were not well-kept secrets, thanks to her ex, still they were going to make her say it. She looked out in the crowd for Harry only she could not find him and Marcia cleared her throat impatiently.

"Because as far as the muggle world is concerned, I was never born." Hermione tone is decisive, challenging.

Several people nodded putting the pieces together understanding the complexity of this case.

The courts murmured and there was a moment pause as the court quieted back down.

"Yes Miss Granger, but could it be that you are purposely suppressing these memories instead of erasing them all together. We are all familiar with your history, why you turned down the Law enforcement position. It would be fair to assume you would not want another incident like your parents."

And there it was…the shot to the gut. The allegation that would hang her out to dry, they did not want reason and logic they wanted an excuse to disband her.

Hermione sat biting her lip, pushing her temper down so not to make these proceedings worse. Marcia McDonald's cruelty was not without merit.

The department of Law enforcement head was not about to let this opportunity pass her by. She was an ambitious woman, though direct and honest, she certainly wasn't about to let corruption go unpunished.

And right now Hermione Granger had stepped outside of the rules, jeopardizing the very structure of the organization she worked for, war hero or not, she was not above the law.

The Statues of Secrecy was the top priority of the Ministry of Magic, any security threat could not go unpunished.

There is something in the muggle born witches' expression that puts the court on edge. Harry Potter stood in the shadows watching the proceeding all the while muttering to himself, willing his friend to keep the words buzzing in her head to herself. Now was not the time to voice unshared opinions no matter how righteous. For in this moment they would fall on deaf ears.

"Miss Granger, it is with great consideration that you will be suspended from your duties at the Ministry of Magic until the pending investigation concerning the muggle in question is concluded. If what you claim is the truth you will be reinstated, if not, well I suggest you reevaluate your priorities, and what little options remain open for you." Marcia McDonald states.

"There is a whole world of options out there that these halls choose to ignore." Hermione whispers, the court hears her all the same. "A whole world that I gave up to be a part of this corrupt one."

Marcia raises a finely plucked eye-brow. "Ignore? Not at all Miss Granger, we are far more aware of that world's dangers than you seem to be; persecution and accusations, bon fires in the streets, loss of innocent life due to ignorant based fears. Joined histories filled with suffering that we do not wish to repeat. We take all pending threats to our way of life very seriously."

"Sherlock is not a threat to anyone but himself." Hermione screeches, a plead, one that Marcia thinks she understands even if the young woman before her does not.

"Your mockery of our traditions have not gone unnoticed. Unlike parts of the community, this court recognizes the good intentions of your youth. If you wish to take responsibility for this muggle perhaps the court could grant him pardons, allow him the knowledge of our existence. You have three months to persuade us that Sherlock Holmes is not a threat to the wizarding world. At which time you will be granted a pardon or he will be taken into custody." Marcia bangs her hammer concluding the meeting.

Sometime later Hermione is in her office putting final touches on a report before her suspension. Harry is sitting across her desk reading his inner office mail. There is a comfortable silence as they work.

"You're being cruel." Harry says breaking the silence. She looks up shocked by his statement he is not looking at her.

"How exactly am I being cruel?" Hermione asks, "I'm keeping him safe."

Harry put the memos in his pockets leaning forward, "There aren't very many people you would give up a career you have worked your whole life for, you proved that with Ron. So why now…why him?"

Hermione sighed leaning back in her chair. "Two in fact."

"So why him?" Harry asks again, picking up a paper weight tossing it from hand to hand.

"I had a happy childhood. One filled with love and adventures. I gave it all up and I'll never get it back." She has tears in her eyes. "Making him forget completely…that seems cruel…this way at least he had one friend. Even if he believed she was imaginary."

"Is this muggle man worth it?" Harry asks, unjudging it is an honest question from a well-meaning friend.

Hermione shrugs a flash of hurt in her eyes. "I made my choice, long ago. I chose to stand at your side, I chose the magical world."

Harry scrutinized her with assessing green eyes. "Sometimes life gives us second chances to make different choices. He isn't like other muggles." Her friend observes.

Again she shrugs, but it's all a ploy, to hid the hurt of this particular conversation. "What do you know of normal muggles? He is my friend, the silly man that I protect in what ways I can."

"By erasing his memories? I wonder who you are really protecting. I still think's its cruel and perhaps a bit selfish. It doesn't matter what memories you steal; he always tends to find you." Harry observes.

She huffs, "Steals." She is shaking her head. "I don't steal them, I am always careful, I simply change his perception."

"And in doing so breaking the law. It seems you could potentially drive him insane with these half memories."

She shakes her head again. "No, like I said, I am always careful."

"Perhaps too careful?" He questions.

"So I go from being cruel to selfish and now careless. I can't help but wonder what you are really asking, Harry?"

Harry is quiet and when she looks up at him his expression seems troubled. "You are gifted at memory charms, so gifted that you can't retrieve your own parent's original memories. So why does he always find you? There is always a ghost of recognition, a desperation in his eyes when he catches sight of you. A compulsion to seek you out. So is it him who is unwilling to let you go, or is it you who is unwilling to give him resolution."

She rubs her hands over her faces and through her hair sighing. "I don't know." She finally whispers and it startles Harry because that was not the answer he was expecting.

"I take what I can without damaging his personality, I don't want to make the same mistake I did with my parents, but I take it all, everything I can find, I take it and lock it down deep. Somehow he always finds it and picks the lock, letting the memories leak out in slow dawning association. There is nothing I can do, for a muggle he had his own protective barriers, it's like he hides a trigger something that I can't seem to find and take."

"Why? Why does he fight so hard to keep you?" Harry asks.

"I don't know." Is her quiet answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Beetle and Rats**

It was a path he was not familiar with, but Redbeard seemed to know the way.

The hound strained against the leash as they descended further and further into the woods.

There was a cool breeze that made the leaves rustle as Sherlock surveyed the terrain. He spotted her just a bit further on through the thicket in a clearing. She was balancing over the trunk of the fallen birch, crouched down her skirts tucked in her belt, a pair of thick boot on her feet and her wild hair reasonably tamed in plaits down either side of her head.

She looked like a proper adventure; a canvas pack on the ground and magnifying glass in her hand.

Her spin stiffened indicating she was aware of his presence moments before she spoke. "Are you going to mind your own business and keep walking or are we going to be friends?" She asked looking over her shoulder a daring smirk on her pretty face.

He came closer shaking his head, let her make of that what she will.

"You got an early start." She observes, taking in his jacket and sturdy boots, his uncombed hair, and the abrasions of his face from yesterday's fight. Her judgment as reproaching as her grandmother's had been. Then she looked at Redbeard and she smiled. Her two front teeth noticeable bigger; there is something in that smile that makes him wonder why his heart is beating so fast. "And you brought a friend." She held out a hand relaxed, palm down letting Redbeard sniff her. A second later Redbeard is inching forward allowing her to pet him. Her smile grows as she complements the beast. "Beautiful, smart boy."

Sherlock smiles too. Redbeard, whom normally doesn't like anyone; approves and it is hard to argue with such a picky creature.

Sherlock still has not spoken, fascinated by her every move. From the delicate way she stroked Redbeard's rust fur to the confidence she has as she looks him in the eye and speaks. "I was up early myself, helping my grandma with the gardens, when I came across a leaf beetle. It had an orange body, blue spots, and yellow antennas, she was just so lovely." The girl shares waving him over. There in the groove of the tree was the bug she was speaking of.

The girl hands him the magnify glass before continuing, "My grandma told me the Brazilin fable of how the beetle got her colors. Have you heard it?" She asks urgently.

Sherlock shakes his head, "Fairy tales are pointless drabble." He finally speaks, sounding less knowledgeable and snootier than he intended.

He thinks to correct himself but she tilts her head looking at him curiously before ignoring his comment adjusts herself by rocking back on her heels leaning down so her face was inches from his own. "There once was a beetle walking along minding her own business when a rat stepped in her path bosting rudely of all his accomplishments." The girl started the tale with a never mind to his opinion on the matter the look in her eye warning him to not interrupt, "and if that wasn't enough he insulted her all the time he spoke belittling every facet of her being." The girl stood gracefully balancing on the tree trunk looking down her own little nose at Sherlock as she continued the tale. "'Well aren't you small and ugly, beetle, so slow with all your skinny little legs. I could step on you and no one would even notice.' But someone did notice a parrot perched up in the tree who swooped down with his colorful feathers and shrew eyes." The girl stands spreading her arms like a bird perfectly balanced. Before hopping down off the tree and continuing her story. "'You should be on your way rat. Can't you see this lovely beetle was just enjoying the splendor of such a fine day?', the parrot says as the rat huffs indignant. 'Lovely? Such praise doesn't belong to such a dull grey creature. I bet I could beat her in a race and when I do you, parrot, must stop your meddling and sing my praise to the whole jungle.' The rat insisted. The beetle insulted and angry accepted the challenge. The rat sneered rolling his shoulders as they set the start line. The rat darting off the moment the parrot gave the signal. He looked back unable to see the beetle; surly she hasn't even left the finish line he thinks as he runs. When the rat crosses he finishing line the beetle is already there; a patient if not haughty expression on her face. The Rat is outraged, 'how did you get here so fast!' he demanded to know. The beetle tilted her little head when she answered. 'Did I forget to mention I can fly?' the parrot turned and asked her what she wanted for a reward in winning the race, she asked for a new colorful cloak so it was easier for her to be seen and the danger of being stepped on not so much of a threat." The girl finished the story and bowed smiling as impressed with herself as Sherlock was. He clapped his hands slowly.

It was a good story and she was an excellent story teller. Not at all like the stories his brother liked to tell they all were brimstone and god's wrath coming to pluck unworthy boys from the Earth. Sherlock means to complement her instead his words seem to get jumbled up and it comes out insulting. "You do understand that most of the time first impressions are actually quite true in nature, one only needs to actually use their eyes. Like you; only child. You're bossy, and use to getting your way, hence forcing your story on me after I told you I didn't care for such things. You knew my name yesterday and my intent for good old Karl, so someone has obviously told you about me. That I'm a trouble maker? Probably an adult and then they most likely suggested that because you showed an ounce of intelligence and making friends is not easy for you, what with your over confidence and bossy nature that perhaps I would be a suitable choice for summer companionship. But it's likely we have very little in common from your choice of knowledge, and pet." Sherlock says twirling the magnifying glass and the girl narrows her eyes at him she looks stunned and there are unfallen tears in her eyes.

He wonders what he had said to cause such a reaction, he found her confidence refreshing and he had always wanted to be an only child, how fortunate to those that were. So they had a few obstacles to overcome it wasn't like it was impossible to do so. Then he realized that he had said none of this aloud and what he had said could possibly have been misinterpreted.

She was too calm her chin lifted defensively, put her words so quiet he had to strain his ears to hear her. "Perhaps I had misjudged you yesterday, I had thought…" Her voice trailed off and she again looked at him in that peculiar way then she shook her head and the tears where gone, as was her smile. There was a stern sadness in her expression. "No one told me about you and it seems to me that you know everything you wish to about me. I'm used to being criticized particularly by ignorant children. You are right, I am bossy and use to getting my own way, because normally I am right, annoyingly so and I don't like to waste time to prove a point I already know. Perhaps in the light of things I should have considered your original assessment, let us just mind our own business and keep walking. I had only wanted to help."

"I'm not ignorant!" He bellows. The intensity of his claim hardly putting merit to it. "I can handle myself I don't need help." He informs her more calmly, his eyes sharply on her, he didn't need her spreading lies about him being weak.

She looks down her nose at him. "This is all my mistake, I apologize. It was bound to happen I suppose. Me being wrong. I had thought you wanted a friend. Yesterday 'Treasure Island' was in your back pocket. Not many eight year olds read classic literature. Never mind children classic literature, comic books from my understanding is what most boys preferred. Super heroes and such rubbish. I read a lot. Anywhere from classic novels to old text books and everything in between. I don't discriminate."

"I'm nine." He corrects puffing out his chest.

She ignores him squaring her own shoulders, "Knowledge in all forms is worth something. Including silly little fables from which I'm told life lessons can be learned. I like them for the insight on the culture they derive from and the ridiculous superstitions they capture. They are far more entertaining than getting beat up to see just how far a person can be pushed into doing something they might regret. How does that work exactly as a source of entertainment?" Again she is judging him and she has no right to look at him with that self-righteous expression.

"What are you my conscious now?" He asks defensively.

She flips a plait off her shoulder and rolls her eyes. "Do you need one?" She challenges.

They are staring each other down and measuring each other up and then just like that something changes and they are smiling. "Perhaps." Sherlock admits with a chuckle and shrugs.

She is blushing holding out her hand. "I'm Hermione Granger." He takes her hand and is surprised how nicely it fits inside his own.

It was a proper introduction to an unexpected friendship.

That first summer was spent catching and identifying bugs, long afternoon's in the library and five nights in a make shift tent out in the woods, all the while Sherlock avoiding his family. On Hermione's last day they played out a scene from Treasure Island on the beach. Sherlock took the pirate name Mad Dog, and Hermione Sea Cat it was the most fun Sherlock had ever had and it was hard to watch her pack up and drive away in her parent's car when the week ended.

He spent the next year looking forward to Sea Cat's return planning their next great adventure.

 **Retrace**

The pub was empty all but the owner, a dark skinned man with a casual expression, and a matronly woman in a green cloak and pinched expression sitting at a large table all by herself. There was a look of recognition on her face when he entered her eyes locking on him following his every move. Sherlock doesn't make it to the bar when she waves him over in a stern professional kind of way. Sherlock looked behind him thinking she was calling to someone else, "I don't have all day, Mr. Holmes, I assume since you showed up you are still interested. I have several more applicants after you." She states, her impatient expression reminding him of a college professor he had at Cambridge. He takes the chair across from her.

"It seems in your hurry last night you left behind this contraption. Tell me is it often your habit of forgetting important things?" Her voice was as severe as her expression. Sherlock took his phone hesitantly all the while reading this imposing woman. A woman out of time. She belonged in the eighteenth century with her green cloak and laced boots. She wrote with a quill on parchment and the cat hair on her clothes was all too close to the same color as her own graying locks.

He couldn't' remember anything about last night nor could read anything of a former acquaintance with from this woman's appearance, but perhaps he could muddle through this and pick up subtle answers to the mounting questions he had.

"We spoke last night." She reminds him expecting something from him and without anything to say he nods purposely looking confused. She looks up at him concerned. "You said you had experience." She urges and again Sherlock nods slowly this time adding "lots of experience." Hoping that by agreeing she would expound on information. Instead she closes up looks at him pointedly so he continues trying to sound reassuring. "I have been in the field far longer than most realize." He adds sounding assuring.

Sherlock smiles patiently expecting this to put her at ease so she will remind him of her case.

Again the woman looks confused a withering eyebrow arches as her spectacles slide down her nose.

"Have you brought references?" She queries staring at him from over her glasses.

He tries not to feel like he was back at school being reprimanded for that prank on groundskeeper. "Of course not." He tells her this time she looks completely taken back, befuddled by his announcement.

"Confidentiality." He assures as a potential client she must appreciate the gesture.

She takes her glasses off slowly folding them placing them on the table, her eyes narrow, there is a sharpness in her expression that makes Sherlock feel like he has done something wrong. She sighs heavily sitting back in her chair, "That is very unconventional." She comments scribbling down something with a quill. "Can you assure me you are up to date on joint histories and technologies of your people?"

This shaken Sherlock. He really is unsure where this has gone or what such an odd question could do with a potential case. There was something lacking in this woman's sentence structure particularly for a woman whose whole person screamed educator. Again Sherlock observed her odd clothes and choice of writing utensil. Who wrote with a preference of quill over pen? Perhaps a foreigner, but for the life of him the detective could not come up with a logical conclusion. She must be some kind of diplomate, in need of a private detective. "Very well Mr. Holmes, would you like to add anything else to your credentials? Lacking as they are?" Sherlock shakes his head. Feeling let down by the whole exchange from which he got no useful information.

Her assessing glare tightens, "You will be informed of my decision before the end of the week." The woman states with a firm dismissive air and Sherlock rises trying to work out why he was here to begin with let alone to pick up his phone that he very much doubts he lost. He had to of left it on purpose, but why? He began to walk away pulling out his mobile to check in and outgoing calls, when he realized he didn't even know the woman's name.

"I look forward to hearing from you Mrs…." Sherlock let his voice trail off, perhaps he would not completely empty handed.

"McGonagall." She supplies.

This was promising; he was already googling her when he replied. "I look forward to your call." Sherlock smiles reaching over to shake her hand before turning to make his way up to the bar. The owner, was wiping the counter down with an obviously filthy rag.

"So you remember me from last night?" The detective asked. The man glared at Sherlock, "Should I?" The man answers shortly.

"Guess not." Sherlock says leaving the pub disappointed when the internet came up with a blank search on the name McGonagall.

He thumbs through his contacts to find no enlightening information then he opens his photos. There had to be something important, something to jog his memory from last night why else would he leave his phone behind.

Sherlock is a block away from his flat when he finds it; a picture hidden in downloads taken three months back saved under an obscure name and encoded. When the photo finishes pixelating there sitting cozy in the same bar he just left is a photo of Mrs. McGonagall and a young woman with curly brown hair and a familiar smile. Someone he forgot even existed until he saw this picture. He had buried her down deep in his subconscious refusing to think even her name.

"You!" he whispers to his phone intrigued to find a photo of his childhood friend in his phone because as far as the world was concerned Hermione Granger did not exist. She has always been nothing more than a personal ghost. An aberration he had made for himself.

He rushed back to the bar to find the lights all out, the window boarded closed and sign of condemned on the door. It looked as if it had been abandoned for years and when Sherlock tried to pick the lock it wouldn't budge. He had no choice but to retreat and try again another day.

His flat was a couple of streets away. Later that night he sat in his chair staring at his mantel in a sour mood contemplating the possibility that he had finally gone mad.

She ran like the devil was after her, only to arrive after he left. Coming in the back way of the Leaky Cauldron, Harry at her heels. Professor McGonagall was seated at a table looking aghast by her un-lady like behavior, Dean moved from where he stood at the entry way staring out the windows. "He's gone. I placed a charm on him in case he comes back, he'll think the bar condemned like any other muggle."

Hermione is catching her breath nodding, "Thank you Dean."

"Yeh…no big deal." He says going back behind the bar grabbing his DA coin off the counter.

Hermione sits on a bar stool as he pours her a drink. Harry is looking out the window and McGonagall is looking at them all like they have lost their minds.

"Your detective is back." Harry states shaking his head, his admiration apparent in his smile. Hermione throws back her drink walking over to stand beside her friend. She has to lean over Harry to see out. Sure enough there was Sherlock Holmes looking up at the bar confused. He tries the door and then pulls out a little wallet and tries to pick the lock. Hermione lungs over grabbing the handle when it turns placing a silent locking charm on the door. She waits listing to him curse when a tool slips and he cuts a finger. Then he looks at the bar one more time and leaves for good.

Everyone takes a huge sigh.

"Does anyone care to explain what that was all about?" McGonagall demands.

"Not really." Is Dean's smart answer.

"He is persistent; I'll give him that." Harry states ordering a drink.

"Yes a regular boil on the end of my nose." Hermione grips.

"Hermione." Harry says her name in a reprehending way, a single nod is her response.

"I know; you think I'm being cruel. Your apparent respect for the man has not gone unnoticed. I don't know how he does it, my spells are impenetrable. I'm not doing anything on purpose." She is ranting and Harry pulls her into a tight hug. She lets him hold her while she calms down, not fully understanding why she is an emotional mess to begin with. "I'm going to have to go to him." She finally acknowledges.

"This has been drawn out far too long, the man needs closer." Harry agrees, to which Hermione shoots her friend an annoyed expression before stepping out of his arms and vanishing with a pop.

The air doesn't even settle when the newly appointed Headmistress Minerva McGonagall beckons her formal student with an authoritative wave. "Mr. Potter, a word."


	3. Chapter 3

**Several Features of Interest**

There was a man standing in his underwear gaping at her like he has seen a ghost.

Mind you it was his home she just barging into via floo but the look of terror followed by dawning recognition, and budding hope was something Hermione was not expecting. After all she had oblivated Sherlock three times in the last month alone so why were her spell was not working. If was frustrating, there wasn't a spell she couldn't do or a problem she couldn't solve.

After all she was Hermione Granger, brightest witch of the century.

Yet in that moment she could not for the life of her justify a grown man in whitey tighties, had he never heard of the boxer or boxer brief?

 _Constant vigilance_ , she heard a voice in her head say sounding an awful lot like the long deceased Mad-eyed Moody.

She racks her brain for something clever to say, something to break the building tension as Sherlock stares her down oddly disconnected like he can't belief what his eyes are seeing. But odder still is that her brain doesn't want to function either. Words don't seem to want to form, though perhaps if he put some pants on it would help her think.

He was a scarecrow of a man, pale and bony not an ounce of fat on him making her more concerned for his physical health that his state of mind. What had life done to him. An already cynical little boy aged into a bitter and awkward man. Her conscious asks if she had anything to do with his failures; if her actions have caused this…

He clears his throat and his staring has become hostel. She knows she must say something. "Miss me?" her question is delivered with far more confidence than she feels.

His eyes narrow in on her and he takes purposeful strides towards her his hand outstretched as if to grab her by the throat.

Perhaps it is her imagination; her guilt playing tricks on her but she Apperates across the room and he practically gets whip lash as he follows the sound.

"You!" He shouts accusingly, looking at her like she is the most threatening thing he has ever seen. His hand drops to his side forming fists. And she can see every muscle in his pale body tenses in physical anger.

"Me." Hermione states with gusto, watching as his stare goes from anger to wonderment.

"You don't exist you are nothing more than a figment of my imagination!" He bellows at her closing his eyes then opening them up again looking disappointed to find she is still there. "Are you here to haunt me for a particular reason, Miss Granger?" He asks, all teeth and ferocious like a wounded animal might lash out to those trying to help.

Hermione hears Harry's voice in her head and quietly admits to herself that perhaps Harry Potter had been the voice of reason, perhaps Sherlock deserved better.

"That is why you are here, isn't it? Found out I became a famous detective…want me to solve your lack of existence? Well my dear I tried and all I got was more questions and a rather bad drug addiction. I can't solve them all but as always I welcome your company. I am in need of my conscious." He slouches down into a chair. His back curves like an old man, every vertebra of his spine pultruding against the parlor of his skin as he reached over the coffee table and picks up a syringe eyeing it with intent. "I tend to do stupid things when I'm alone." It's a confession she remembers all too well, as he looks longingly at the needle. Then his voice is a slight forlorn whisper, "You haven't done a very good job over the years, being my conscious and all. Where have you been lurking?" He asks looking up at her expecting an answer and in a certain light she supposes she owes him one.

"Here and there, saving the world." She shrugs like it was no big deal. "If I'm not mistaken you have saved a few worlds yourself."

He huffs indignantly. "Now your mocking me, just as you did when we were children…. _Don't you want to help them, Sherlock, help all the stupid people, perpetuating the problem_." He did a horrible impression of her thirteen-year-old self.

"I don't believe those were my exact words. If I recall I suggested teaching people to be better, so that fear didn't rule good sense…but your poetic license is noted, you were always better at using fist over words."

"Again mocking." He bits out clearly upset, but then she doesn't know him anymore. This shadow of a man is not the little boy she adored.

"I never mocked you, Sherlock, I knew you had greatness in you and only wanted to see you try…" She states calmly, just as she would have when they were children and he was being difficult.

"Try what!?" He bellowed slamming his hand on the table, he hits it so hard she watches as a bruise immediately begins to form along the outside of his hand.

She doesn't jump only tilts her head unimpressed, "To live in the world, not over it."

"To live in a world where the majority of the population is mentally challenged?" he scoffs throwing his arms in the air.

She is shaking her head, letting her own anger show, "You say such horrible things, and think that makes you smart or superior in some way. You always have…when you were a child it was tolerable, as a grown man it's pathetic."

"Says the girl who doesn't exist." He now mocks looking back down at the syringe in his hand setting it on a nearby table.

She smirks in that indulging way, like she used to when she thought he was being ridiculous.

"Then why am I here? Why can't you just live your miserable life and leave me out of it. That is what you always told me to do, when you were cross with my honesty? Do you remember that day during our last summer…I found you at our spot in the woods crying? I asked you what was wrong and you told me to 'keep walking and mind my own business.' I had thought you would eventually show up, like you always did. Perhaps not with an apology but with your violin, we would play together and I would forgive you because I knew you didn't really mean it. But you never showed up and when I went to you, you wouldn't even come out to talk with me. Your disgusting brother shooed me away like I wasn't worthy to even be standing on the porch let alone be asking after you." Hermione could hear her own voice, shrill and filled with emotions she thought long buried.

This was not how she wanted to proceed. With all these emotions clouding her words.

The silence stretched out uncomfortably before she was able to continue. "That is why I don't understand why you kept searching for me when you were the one to tell me to go away? Or how you keep remembering…when I force you to forget. In the Leaky Cauldron, at the Vernet exhibit, and then in Diagon Alley." This causes him to look up at her.

The mix emotions of fury and curiosity on his handsome face and Hermione has walked over to stand in front of him. She reaches out placing a hand on his cheek and he inhales like he can't believe what his senses are telling him.

"You're real?" He gasps, his other hand coming to up to cover hers and she smiles as he moves away staring at her suspiciously. "I just saw you…" He points from one side of the room to the other and she nods understanding. "It's not possible. How did you?"

She was making a mess of this, she was supposed to be persuading him magic was not real. Not confirming its existence.

She was being careless.

"Come here and I'll tell you." She holds out her hand and he seems to make up his mind. Uncoiling he slowly reaches out and takes her hand.

He is looking down at their intertwined hands with a small pull at the corner of his mouth.

She gently leads him closer to her ever so giving him the chance to pull away, but he doesn't. She lets go of his hand, her arms encircle his waist, her head on his shoulder. "Do you remember the song…the one my grandma always had us play? The one they played at her wedding?"

Sherlock gives Hermione a little reassuring squeeze and she can feel him nod against the top of her head. Sherlock is warm for being so scantly clothed, his skin soft, he smells of old books, ink and freshly mowed grass. There is a scar under his ribs she has no right to be curious about, as he begins to sing she steadies herself tears already forming. "Do not forget me, do not forget me…Remember the maid, the maid of the mill…" His voice trails off and she slowly pulls back nodding once more reaching up to place her hand on his cheek.

There are tears and regret and all Hermione can hear is Harry's voice calling her cruel. But she had no choice if she didn't handle this the ministry would and they would not be so delicate when they ripped what they wanted from his mind.

So this time she takes it all, not leaving any remnants of herself, not even as an imaginary friend. This time she left no trace, no trail of bread crumbs pushing it all down, so very deep and locking it away. Memory Charms were tricky and while she wants to save him, she doesn't want to destroy his beautiful mind in the process. She searches it all out and pushes it down careful not to give way to harm. When she pulls away she is cold and there are knots in her stomach.

As Sherlock stares at her blankly Hermione realizes that she loves him but she does not stay around to figure out in what way. This solution, while in a warped sense of kindness, makes more sense than anything else that she can conjure up. Sherlock's body sags back onto the couch, his eyes wide open but he is not really conscious. She cannot look at him again when she reaches over and takes the syringe from the table before leaving the flat the way she came.

Guilt gnawing away at all her good intentions.

 **Unemployed**

Someone is shaking him rather harshly.

Sherlock is groggy and it takes too long to focus and open his eyes. John's angry face looms over him, Mary looking on concerned as Sherlock adjust himself on the couch and looks around his apartment with a sense of urgency.

He has forgotten something…something very important.

But what?

From the situation he awakes the first assumption is that he once more self-medication.

From his position on the couch to his lack of clothing, and the complete absence of memories from the night before to this morning; it should be safe to assume that he fell far off the wagon.

John is pointing, yelling and pointing but all the detective can seem to care about is why he feels like he has miss placed his favorite coat, that happens to be hanging on the back of the door.

"You promised, never on a case…" John claims, this causes Sherlock to look up at his friend suspicious.

"What case?" Sherlock asks not remembering taking on anything as of recent. John huffs as he pulls out his own cell phone thrusting it in the detective's face.

"The girl." He tells Sherlock pointing to a pretty, curly haired young woman setting across from an older woman with grey hair and green cloak.

The girl does not look familiar.

"The girl. Is that all I have to go on or is there more?" Sherlock questions impatiently.

John looks indignant. "Impossible, you are! You sent me the photo! Do you not remember that?"

"Clearly not. Do I have anything else on her?"

"All I got was this photo and an order to not delete it… oh and a journal…you told me you kept a journal." John exclaims, hand outstretched for his mobile. Sherlock hands it over searching for his own and looking through his photos all of which were deleted last night.

"What journal, where?" Sherlock asks eagerly. John is already shrugging shaking his head as Sherlock bounces up searching all his familiar hiding spots to no avail. The detective suddenly stops in the middle of the living room noticing a few suspicious oddities around the flat.

"How long ago did you two arrive?" Sherlock ask looking to the open door.

"Not even twenty minutes." Mary states taking a seat in John's old chair.

"You came in through the door?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes of course!" John declares.

"Mary?" Sherlock says her name walking over deliberately sniffing her. John looks upset but says nothing and Mary looks confused. "You've not changed your perfume." He announces rushing down the hall to his room.

"No." Mary confirms looking at her husband curiously, John shrugs.

When Sherlock returns he is fully dressed and throws a vile at John, who catches it reading the label.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" John asks.

"It is at the same levels it was two weeks ago, the last time I used. I didn't touch it last night." Sherlock declares excitedly reaching for his coat.

"And?" John presses.

Sherlock smiles, "And a woman's perfume lingers in my flat, I awake once more with no recollection of last night and a clear sense of urgency having forgotten a case. There are soot marks on my carpet and my seven percent solution syringe is missing. She was here… she made me forget!"

"Forget what?" Mary wonders aloud.

Sherlock looks positively gleeful shrugging. "I don't know…" he boasts excitedly putting on his coat and heading for the door. "But I'm going to find out."


	4. Chapter 4

**Trains and Crossroads**

It is quite coincidental that the dark haired man in glasses is at the same train stop as Sherlock. Or at least it should be had Sherlock believed in such rubbish. It was the stocker. The one who had been trailing him for weeks, and gave up a few days past. Or perhaps that is what Sherlock had thought. Only now the man is pushing rudely in front of Sherlock towards the back of the train.

Sherlock follows the man taking the same car as him.

Both men settle in pulling out newspapers, Sherlock the _Daily Sun_.

This dark haired stocker a rag that read _the Prophet_.

Strange, Sherlock never heard of the paper.

"Traveling for business?" Sherlock asks, the inquiry is stiff and quite ridiculous, the detective can clearly see it was a leisurely day trip from the man's clothing and minimal baggage.

"No." Is all the young man says adjusting his paper. One of the pictures catch his eye it is as if it had just moved but when Sherlock looks again he knows his mind must be playing tricks on him.

That woman has given him brain damage.

"I am…"

"I know who you are, Mr. Holmes." The man cuts across folding his paper and looking at Sherlock bored. It is reassuring that you followed me, for this introduction, just as I assumed you would."

Sherlock looked befuddled. "You have been following me." He accuses and the other man smiles.

"Yes." He states plainly looking at Sherlock quite entertained by the detective's confusion.

"Why? Did she tell you to?" Sherlock is outraged that a woman could have so much hold on his life, particularly one that did not exist.

"She? Oh no. She has no idea. I just had to make sure… and now I am convinced."

"Convinced of what?"

"That you both are positively clueless. Such a shame…" He trails off standing the train hadn't even begun to move. "From my understanding you are a collector of beetles. You preserve one from every place you have ever travelled. What a curious hobby. It makes me wonder why?" The man wonders aloud a playful twinkle in his green eyes.

Sherlock is surprised and outraged, why does this man know so much about him. "Why not! There are as many different species of beetle as there are places in the world."

"Exactly, but you are a chemist. Know a lot about plants, minerals and their medical properties. Why not a collection of herbs or a rock, or any kind of bug or spider with chemical property…why specifically a beetle?" this seems to catch Sherlock off guard as he considers this, "Who are you?" Sherlock inquires. The man looks very serious he pushes his glass up his nose and with a clear voice answers. "Harry Potter, best friend." And with a loud crack the man vanishes before the detective's once reliable eyes.

Sherlock is convinced he has gone mad by the time he gets back to his flat that night. He sits in his chair contemplating his day and lack of information. Considering the young man, Harry Potter, from the train. What did he mean best friend? To whom? And why declare it so boldly unless he felt threaten?

Sherlock looked up at his mantel and there was his beetle collection all of them neatly preserved behind glass, the perfect souvenir from all his travels.

All of them little reminders of cases and adventures…well apart from the little one there in the near center. That one had an orange body with blue spots and yellow antenna, he had found her in the forest close to his house. Wait…no that is wrong…He had gone back for the creature.

She would have been mad if she knew he took such a memento…SHE…that was it! Sherlock ran into his room where he kept the Beetle index and there tucked inside was a little journal with a leaf beetle drawn on the cover.

He doesn't even see the letter with gold ink address to him on the table next to his chair until the next day. As he spent early into the morning recovering his memories.

* * *

Hermione was packing up her desk when the owl arrived offering her a new post at Hogwarts as the new potion's professor.

She had spoken candidly to the council of other options, of other opportunities and of other adventures.

But now it seemed Hogwarts was the only opportunity she had open to her. Merlin preserve Minerva and her generosity.

Hermione had burnt many bridges trying to salvage what she could from her own world and trying to fix this one. She had tried and in every way failed. The wizarding world would never change.

They refused change in the same way they embraced their backwards traditions.

Hermione had never failed at anything before and couldn't fathom how she could possibly have made so many bad choices in such a short amount of time.

In the end what she had thought she wanted most, ended up not being the thing she fought to keep.

Now losing Ron, made no more sense than her losing her job.

Minerva's offer was more than substantial but right now it was also discouraging.

Teaching was never an ambition of hers, in fact she felt like she failed and that is was her that needed to go back to Hogwarts to learn.

Because this what her brilliant mind had been reduced to.

She had so many aspirations of changing the world. Of saving it from its self…yet she cannot even get her own life in order.

She scribbled down an acceptance letter to Head Mistress McGonagall before flooing home.

If there was one silver lining in all this, it was that she had saved her once upon a time friend, and that now after everything, she can pretend that she had never laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes.

Her life would finally settle down.

* * *

John looked confused as Sherlock tossed book after book into a plastic bin. His suit case had been packed for weeks and he was still back and forth on what materials he wanted to take for his new job.

"Job? Like a real one? With a pay check and such?" John asks, looking on with that stupid face.

"Yep!" Sherlock confirmed his own excitement apparent as he bustled around the flat.

"What of England and pending cases?" John asked, looking at the wall which had recently been deconstructed from the latest solved mystery.

"I was assured I would have nights and weekends off. Ten classes a week, can't be all that bad."

"You're teaching?" This amused John.

Sherlock stopped packing to look up at his friend, "Yes."

John wipes his nose with the back of his hand, smirking. "What exactly are you teaching?"

Sherlock seems to consider this "history?", His answer sounded more like a question.

John rubs his eyes with his sleeve a telling habit of his, "History? What history exactly?"

"Britain's I suppose." Sherlock answers, grouchy. The details were not important, finding that girl was.

"You suppose. So you don't know. You accepted a teaching job and you don't even know what you are teaching?" John scolds.

Sherlock snaps his suitcase shut violently clearly irritated. "History! I didn't bother with details. I was told I would have a general lesson plan. Nothing else to consider. Mrs. Hudson will keep my flat ready for me on weekends and holiday."

John nods, "Ah…well that makes sense…not bothering with details…So you are teaching on a subject you are not sure about in a School that you can't talk about and doesn't have cell reception." John is practically shouting.

"Yep." Is Sherlock's calm reply. Irritating his friend always put him at rights.

"How exactly am I supposed to get a hold of you?" John asks.

"Whatever for?" Sherlock looks genuinely confused.

"Emergency." It's John's turn to be condescending.

Sherlock seems to be considering the question. He picks up a letter and re-reads it then very plainly states, "An owl, then."

"Sorry a what?" John, does not miss a beat, his confusion is now complete.

"An owl." Sherlock repeats frankly.

John is shaking his head. "Is that some new kind of texting? Like snap chat?" the doctor asks.

"Nope." Sherlock stated condescendingly. "No, an owl is a solitary, nocturnal bird of prey. With over two hundred forms of species therefore it should be easily enough to procure one should an emergency arise between Monday and Friday, however unlikely."

John shakes his head trying to process everything. "I have a very good idea that you are not joking."

Sherlock just shrugs finishing his packing. "You have a wife and soon a child. I have been offered an opportunity that rarely presents itself; a real job to keep me out of mischief, that I don't dreed." The detective puts a reassuring hand on John's shoulder before grabbing his luggage and heading down stairs.

"This is about the girl, isn't it?" John shouts at his friends back.

Sherlock doesn't answer as he climbs into the waiting cab.

The train station was a familiar sight but finding platform 9 and ¾ proved to be something of a challenge. It didn't take the detective long to figure out the illusion that existed between platforms nine and ten and when he leant against the wall he was suck through to a hidden gate that read platform 9 and 3/4.

The red locomotive that stood against the dark contrast of the world around it was like something from days past and in a very reassuring way reminded him of the stoic looking woman that interviewed him several days past. He knew he was where he was meant to be. He found an empty cart that didn't stay empty long. There were families everywhere saying fair well to their children as they in turn filed on the train. By departure time Sherlock was sitting face to face with four bright faced children all of which were a bit on the small side. Luckily Sherlock was very good with children, he had after all bonded quiet easily with Archie.

"You a new professor?" one of the little boys with sandy blond hair asked.

"Yep." Sherlock answered.

"We're all first years. Whatcha teaching?" One of the other children inquired a pudgy boy.

"History." Sherlock answers in that no nonsense way.

The little boy looks at his friends confused. "Are you a muggle?" The boy whispers like asking could in some way be offensive.

"Don't know what a muggle is." Sherlock shrugs like it's no big deal.

"You are then, aren't you? Not magical, I mean. That is a muggle is a none magical person." The boy explains.

In turn Sherlock seems to ponder this, "Yeah, sure…" he finally answers with another shrug. The children chatter among themselves clear more excited than offended.

"Then will you have to be sorted too?" The only little girl asked, her big blue eyes filled with curiosity. "I want to be in Ravenclaw. But Danny wants to be in Gryffendor." She states flipping her silver blond hair over her shoulder nodding towards the last little boy who looked very much like her.

"Sorted? Don't know anything about that either."

That is all the children need to go into great detail about the sorting hat and ceremony.

* * *

Hermione was seated next to the Headmistress with the first years filed in and there standing like a tree over saplings was Sherlock Holmes.

His blue eyes filled with wonderment as he took in his surroundings.

She really couldn't believe her own eyes looking up to Minerva as she finished her speech and the sorting hat is brought out. Professor Leanne Cabey, the new transfiguration teacher has taken on the task of sorting all the students.

Minerva reaches over and pats Hermione's hand reassuringly. "I know this might come as quite a shock but his references presented him as the best candidate for the muggle professor position. And with all the entanglements with the ministry it seemed making him a professor at the school would take care of any standing legality on the issue."

"What references?" Hermione could hardly get the question out.

"Why Harry Potter of course. He spoke very highly of your friend. He did reassure me that you two were very well aquatinted…so in a way you could be considered a viable reference for Mr. Holmes."

It was perfect timing that at that instant it seemed Sherlock had spotted her, waving at her like a little boy of elven.

Hermione could only hide her face embarrassed.

"Of course it surprises me, Miss Granger, that You didn't even consider the most Logical solution." States McGonagall unaware of Hermione's current distress.

Sherlock is pushing through the group of children and making his way up to the table when Hermione regrettably asks, "what is that?"

Minerva pats Hermione's hand again patiently as she answers. "Marry the muggle man then he can know our secret."

Hermione's face pales and she cannot process anything as Sherlock approaches with a full out grin, sliding across the table opposed to walking around it.

Addressing her as if no time or argument had passed between them. "I find that I have gone positively mad, Sea Cat! Did you see the ghosts? Actual ghost, no hidden projectors or glass illusions. And the floating candles! The view from the boats was an alluring welcoming in contrast to the dark of the night. Do I get to be sorted too!" Sherlock is too excited and Hermione is shaking her head trying to wake up from this nightmare.

It is Leanne that put voice to what everyone else is thinking. "This is why muggles are not admitted to Hogwarts. Mr. Holmes please take your seat, so we can get on with sorting the children. It is getting late."

Sherlock twirls around finding an empty chair at the end of the teacher table. Quickly he grabs the chair and drags it back to where Hermione is squeezing himself between her and wide eyed Nevillle Longbottom who took over Herbology a few years back. Sherlock then snags Hermione's goblet looking disappointed over the fact it was empty. He paid no mind to the fact that the whole room had gone silent watching him with mixed amusement or insult.

It is the Head Mistress that once more shoots Sherlock a reprimanding stare before gesturing for the sorting to resume drawing the Hall's attention back on the remaining group of children.

Minerva turns her attention to the ceremony as Sherlock puts a familiar arm around the back of Hermione's chair leaning in to whisper in hear ear.

"I find your methods of keeping me safe quiet flawed…the whole minding our own business and keep walking doesn't seem to work for us. So perhaps we should explore the 'you show me yours and I'll show you mine', philosophy?" He whispers against her ear, before leaning back and directing his attention to the remaining children still in line to be sorted.

Hermione can feel the color drain from her face and all she can think is there goes the disillusion of a quiet year at Hogwarts.


	5. Chapter 5

**New Chapter, Old Story**

Her office was drafty.

A dink little water closet that still stank of mildew and grease. The floor was sticky and there were left over jars from when Snape occupied the space. From the look of it no one else had even been in here since the cranky potion master's demise. The old leather chair and matching desk splintered from the fluctuation in humidity, it needed to be sanded and a new layer of lacquer applied.

This office was darker than Hermione remembered. She walked over and tried to open one of the four slender windows along the circular outside wall, none of them would budge open.

She sighed, this was nothing a little magic and elbow grease couldn't fix, she decided pulling out her wand.

She would start with fresh air and daylight in here before she suffocated.

Hermione struggled with the window trying every spell she knew ultimately deciding that magic was clearly not the answer. Bearing down on the lock she pushed putting all her weight into it trying to pry the window open the muggle way.

A body presses into her from behind as Sherlock leans over her placing his hand over her then with a strong sure yank the widow swung open, the force knocking Hermione back, his arms encircle her steadying her before he backs away his attention now on the room.

She is frazzled; He had been so quiet; Hermione is sure she is blushing.

"Nice office." He states, his body language aloof and casual, his hands now behind his back.

She glares at his back deciding that he had to be mocking her. "You seem to be finding your way around. I hope they warned you about the stairs." Her tone is reflecting of her eleven-year-old self: bossy, shrill and defensive.

Sherlock turns casually giving her his full attention. "A very reluctant poltergeist has been kind enough to show me around. I hadn't imagined knowing the whole of Scottish histories down to the name of a particular jester could be utilized as blackmail. I merely suggested the hint of a name and he was all too keen to help." Sherlock smiled at her. It was slightly amusing, Hermione could see him negotiating with Peeves and winning. After all there was only one way to get rid of a poltergeist, and she had done her research long ago to earn clemency from his pranks. There was power in names.

Sherlock was looking around her office, slowly getting closer to her. There was intent in his actions she could see it but she was not about to back down when he finally made his way over to stand directly over to her.

Hermione was ready for the verbal match, she was not ready for him to reach over and smell her hair.

"You were in my apartment." He stated with a smirk and playful tug of a curl.

His familiarity unnerved her.

The way he acted like nothing has happened between them. Like she had not stolen something intimate of his and her crime was one of the games they played as children.

She wanted to know how much he. How far back he has to hate her for the invasion of his life and stealing memories? This man was nothing at all to the man she had envisioned he would become and she knew it was her fault.

Sherlock bends down his nose inches from her own intensity radiating off him as he puts voice to his excitement. "This is Absolutely extraordinary. All of it. The Headmistress said you went to school here… All that time and you never said…but then you weren't allowed to were you. You weren't allowed to share any of it! Is that why you suppressed my memories? Robbed me of the only friend I had." He asked this clinically and Hermione takes a deep breath of fresh air before moving over out of his direct path and busing herself with cleaning off shelfs as she tried to figure out how to explain her predicament to an over logical man. She didn't want to be within swinging distance when facing her sins, this was going to be painful… after all She had taught Sherlock Holmes how his words could hurt almost as much as his fist.

"If I'm not mistaken you have fooled around with my head no less than three times… The first at the Vernet exhibit after college. You made me think you were a figment of my imagination. I tried to chased you down into the deepest recess of my mind only to find you still out of my reach. I experimented with different dosages of mind alternating drugs only to come up with a seven percent solution that helped me dive even deeper down into my subconscious, where I could only find pieces of you… where…" He shakes his head like clearing his mind. "I learned memory recovery techniques and tried meditation but none of it worked. Your memory was more feeling that anything…why? Why that first time didn't you just erase everything…erase yourself completely…why leave me with a ghost?" He asks, his confusion and agony completely real. This revelation truly surprised her. Sherlock didn't get hurt, not like this. He was cold and over analyzed everything to the point of dispassion. So to know that she had actually hurt him made her heart swell with regret.

Hermione has stopped cleaning she is looking at him and this is it, no more running, no more lies or magic. With secrets she is unable to share. Minerva has given her opportunity and Hermione will not squander it. Sherlock deserves answers.

"Many of my kind…Witches and wizards don't like non magical people. The branch of our government that does the memory wipes is not overly concerned with preserving a muggle's mind. They only care about keeping the secret that magic is real. I had thought I was doing a kindness. I didn't want you to end up in an asylum." Her voice is strong and clear, she wants him to understand and if there was anything of the boy she loved in this strange and confusing man, then he would be able to. "This is my world, Sherlock. Magic, and ghost, castles, and secrets. A few years back our world was on the verge of war and I had to make a tough decision..."

Sherlock scoffs at this interrupting. "The world is always on the verge of war!"

"Perhaps, but not like this." She explains "This was witches and wizards going after muggles and muggle born. They were killing people like me and you and my parents. I had to protect the people I love so I made the decision that in order to protect my parents I erased their memories and have them move somewhere they would be safe. This choice ensured that if something happened to me they would always be safe from people that wanted to hurt them to hurt me."

He seems to perk at this and very seriously asks. "You erased your parent's memories? Intriguing, do you think you could do that to mine?" There is calculation behind those blue eyes and she can't hold in the smile shaking her head.

"It was permanent." She tells him once more somber. "And while they forgot me, they slowly forgot themselves too. They are not my parents any more, Wendell and Monica Wilkins never had a daughter, I hadn't realized how much I changed them until I took myself out of their lives. When I ran into you I didn't want to do that again to anyone. Understand it's not just me I erase…it's everything you, your name, your job, your home, your family. It all has to be adjusted and once you are convinced that it's real the only cure is insanity. People have lost their minds dealing with such magic. It was a last resort to try and protect my parent and I lost them because of it. I didn't want to make the same mistake again…Even now I don't understand how you kept finding me. Or why? You cut me out of your life first. Made it perfectly clear our friendship was over. So why are you here?"

He seems to be considering this, looking around the room admiring the stone and moldings. "To teach." Is all he gave her before changing the subject. "The lettering…I don't know this language though it has a distinct Latin root." Sherlock says pointing to the moldings above the door and windows.

"Yes well they're spells carved into the stone to keep out unwanted visitors." Hermione states, deciding he was done speaking of the past.

"Do they work?" Sherlock asks, sounded intrigued by the notion.

Hermione shrugs, "Didn't keep me out fifth year."

This causes a sly smile to form on Sherlock's face, the spells momentarily forgotten.

"Ah breaking and entering!... I can recall several of our adventures. Such skills came in handy. I see a devilishly handsome young man has been a wonderful influence on you." He teases.

"Yes... well Harry has a lot to answer for." She shot him a cheeky grin before resuming her work.

Sherlock turns slowly admiring the room as he speaks. "I don't think it was Harry Potter that taught you to pick a lock. If I remember correctly It was me, you, a book from the library, and an old cedar chest... Your grandmother was not happy when we raided her supplies of herbal droughts."

"We? you raided… how much did you get for those?"

Sherlock shrugs, "Was your grandmother a witch?" he asked.

Hermione feels tears pricking her eyes at her grandmother's memory. She shakes her head, "No." She finally answered, "I suspect I got it from somewhere on my mom's side. Perhaps a grandmother of my grandmother or some sort. It would explain why Me`Me` was such a wonderful herbalist. Everything she taught me prepared me for potions… though her brews were in no way magical."

"Really? Her droughts certainly changed my life…" He shrugs. "I think we should switch offices." Sherlock decides his focus once more on the lettering on the moldings. "This is a quaint little place, not too much light and I am use to a small work room...this would do very nicely."

This was familiar, she crosses her arms shaking her head, "You can't just have my office."

"Why not? Mine is large…too large for my needs and much too sunny. You have potions and salves, and a library worth of books to store. Your private library is coming along very nicely. The office that was assigned to me would fit you far better…and I like this one…it's in the dungeons!"

"They are assigned for a reason, Sherlock…" She looks around the office she was assign and thinks to the little living chamber thought the door behind her, it was quaint. "Which office did they give you? The one attached to the muggle artifacts on the first floor? It's not much bigger than this one." Hermione asks, trying to keep her head and be responsible.

"No, No…That one was given to the new Defense Against Dart Arts Professor… mine is on the sixth floor with twelve windows, a large balcony and quite a walk from my class room on the first floor. And with the staircases changing and such aren't you concerned I might get lost or fall to my death?"

Hermione smirks, he was as dramatic as ever. "You were assigned Galatea Merrythougth's old office?" She was suprised, ignoring the last bit.

"I was under the impression it's previous tenant was a Slughorns? Why did you want it?" This was not good, he looked all too pleased with himself.

"Everybody wants that office." Hermione assured calmly. Deciding that perhaps he should offer it the new DADA professor. She was going to suggests just that when she found herself looking up into his beautiful blue eyes. He had once more invaded her personal space.

"Then trade me." Sherlock, his logical suggestion was made in a deep tone that seemed to make her bones hum in compliance because before her brain caught up with the rest of her she had already nodded in agreement.

 **Persuasion**

They did not trade offices.

Sherlock simply maintained residence in the office he offered her after helping her move in. His subtly was so outrageous Hermione should have figured out by Halloween what he was doing. She had offered to help him move his stuff down to the dungeons many times, he simply waved it off saying he would get to it later.

Later never came and a week before Christmas Hermione finally figured out that Sherlock had no intention of trading offices.

He was too busy playing summer camp outs that never seemed to end. And regularly trying to raid her potion stash to move out. He slept on the couch; passing out only when he could no longer avoid sleep.

All in all Sharing was a more appropriate term to their situation.

But Sherlock had the tendency to believe what was hers was his and what was his was his. Hermione cleared this misunderstanding up with locks, spells and her own subtle behavior reconditioning. He was not the first boy she has had to train. Eventually Sherlock remembered how to properly share with the exception of personal space.

Hermione was slowly piecing together a timeline of what Sherlock actually remembered, and how it all fit into his psyche perhaps then she can understand how it came to them sharing a living quarter and him unwilling to let her out of his sight for more than a few consecutive hours of classes.

She believes he remembered more than he should yet not enough to really understand how awkward this was for her.

He was not chatty, and it was unnerving the way he watched her like he was mentally recording every move she made. She recalled him acting this way days before she would leave as children. At the time it had been odd but endearing.

Now it was unsettling.

When it became apparent he would not be using the dungeons, Hermione packed herself up and moved back to her assigned office. She spent a single morning in the space before going to classes, only to come back and everything had been moved out. She knew there was only one option and when she went up to his office to find her stuff unpacked and resituated she can't recall being ever being so angry. "What are you playing at?" She screamed. Sherlock just smiled and told her it wasn't necessary for her to live in that squallier, while this space was obviously big enough for them both.

She had a feeling he didn't like to be alone and all she wanted was to be left alone.

After that Sherlock found a way of making himself at home and taking up space without being a complete pest.

Or perhaps it was her that began to assimilate, readjusting to the familiarity of their relationship. Their time together reminded her of summer days in the library and nights catching up on missed time.

Sherlock liked to tell her stories. Ones of his adventures around the world, ones of his favorite cases as a consulting detective, and even his plans for the future. One filled with bees and sea side cottages. He spoke often of an army doctor named John. She was pleased to hear he had finally found a true friend. Particularly one that took such good care of him.

In exchange Hermione found herself telling her old friend of her own adventures most of which had taken place at Hogwarts. He liked the one about the dragon from first year and he got a pinched expression whenever she mentioned Harry, which was often.

What little free time he allowed himself he spent reading his way through all her text books from school. Years one through seven. He devoured them all from first year charms to advance potion making. She tried to not be too discouraging but he told her it was research; he had to understand the other classes his students were taking. She wondered what he was teaching in muggle studies and when she inquires he told her he was sticking to the syllabus McGonagall gave him at the beginning of term.

When he said this there was something of that boy in his expression and she found she didn't believe a single word of his claimed.

Hermione knew Sherlock had night and weekends off but she never saw him leave Hogwarts. He stayed in her company walking down to the first floor in the morning and stay there until lunch. He would wait for her, lingering in the hallway for them to eat together then he would accompany her to the dungeon and grade papers while she finished her classes. Then they would return upstairs together. Hermione was not deaf to the whispers of not only the teachers but students as well. The common censes being they were lovers. She simply shook off such gossip, she was no stranger to fact less rumors.

Why could a man and woman not enjoy each other's company without it being anything more than friendship? Really, Hermione and Sherlock? How absurd!

"Why are you growling?" Sherlock asks as they climb the stairs.

"What?" Hermione jumps, he interrupted her brooding. "I'm not."

"You are." He states with a tilt of his head.

Hermione doesn't answer instead she changes the subject. "Why don't you go home? On weekends why don't you return to your flat?"

His eyes squint as he scrutinizes her and she can't help but fidget. " I like it here." He answers.

"You like it here? Don't you have another job, one you created. Surly solving mysteries is far more mentally simulating than teaching. I could help if you needed away to get back. I could open up a porkey for you to use. You would have to take it Hogsmead to activate, but…"

"Splendid idea! We could make a long holiday of it! Christmas is in a couple of weeks."

"We? No…No…I have people I…You hate Christmas!" she exclaims. "Always have."

He smiles genuinely. "You don't…Never have." He tells her, his voice again lowering in that trembling octave that seems to vibrate through her.

"That's not what I…" She starts but her voice trails off as he takes her hand and threads it through his arm. And for the first time in a long time Hermione thinks she might be in over her head dealing with a man.


	6. Chapter 6

**Friendly-ish Ghosts and Stolen Kittens**

Sherlock has infiltrated many social structures over the years.

Secret societies, terrorist cells, serial killer cults and he even went undercover to stop a cannibal that loved to gamble; assimilating had never been difficult. Each society had rules that all one had to do was follow to be accepted. Hogwarts itself was easy to accept, even in its irrationality there were rules to be followed, codes to be cracked and a new language to learn. Teaching its self was far more structured than his previous working environment but it too was tolerable. However, herding children was proving to be more challenging than the former detective had anticipated.

Sherlock is reminded how stupid, petty and incredibly bias children were when his first class of third years filed in disgruntled and loud. The class was made up of a combination of all the houses. There was a grand total of nine students in all and it seemed house rivalry did not stop at the class entrance. The only time they got along was when one particular girl in green and silver was making snide comments about the new muggle teacher. Whom in her opinion lacked wit, looks, and a decent wizard robe; She kept calling his Belstaff coat a smock. Perhaps Sherlock did not possess the gift of magic, wand, or robe but he did possess the gift of observation and when he showcased this talent the little twit she did not take insult as well as she dished it out; the cause and effect being a howler at dinner and a trip to the headmistress' office directly after class.

The Head Mistress reminds Sherlock of the class syllabus and encourages him to stick to approved curriculum as well as encouraging taking away house points for punitive behavior.

Sherlock was not about to promote a system that perpetual problem of tattle tails and stereotyped childhood bias. None of the students seemed to want nor understand the concept of autonomy, always with excuses on why they could not complete assignments, needing points to merit good behavior, and never being above playing the victim when things didn't go their way.

The following weeks in muggle studies are focused on autonomy. How to survive the simplest tasks without magic. Such as lighting a fire or tying one's shoe. Everyone is also given the opportunity to learn the proper use a broom and when the third years cleaned a rather filthy former office of a colleague; It was an enlightening lesson to say the less, especially to a particular Slytherin girl who learned the term toilet wand.

The lesson also prompted one student, Cathar Lisben, to take a keen interest in more muggle things apart from muggle cleaning.

Such as an elaborate prank, involving string and a pulley system. Sherlock is informed by Peeves of the prank and the poltergeist ensures the prank backfires on the student, still extra credit is given to the student for autonomy.

It's funny how children grow on you particularly when a Poltergeist takes residence outside your class room ensuring your no wands pass the threshold policy is not broken.

By Christmas, Sherlock comes to the conclusion that perhaps not all children are completely awful.

The former detective becomes very familiar with the Head Mistress' office. Apparently he was not allowed to go into vivid detail on historically accurate muggle tortures for witches and wizards through the ages let alone show them torture artifacts from the medieval times. And apparently practical demonstration on any student that brought a wand to class was completely out of the question. What kind of school were they running?

After the fifth time of being called in for inappropriate punishments, Sherlock made the effort to memorize the complete unacceptable punishment list for students, last updated in 1887. Muggle torture was number fifteen on the list right after hanging students upside down in the dungeons for the night.

Shame most of these might actually work because the house point thing didn't.

It seemed that Hogwarts promoted positive reinforcement instead of outright discipline. No wonder the children were so unruly.

Sherlock tucked the rule list in his breast pocket to review later.

When he asked Hermine how she disciplined her students she shrugged. "As of yet there has been no need." Was her useless reply. But it made sense, in this world Hermione was a hero, the children looked up to her.

The house point thing clearly perpetuated negative comportment between houses and an unwillingness to do the right thing for anything more than public validation. Which hardly promoted house unity.

No wonder this school was stuck in medieval times, Sherlock wondered if all the wizard world was stuck in this rather unimaginative time period. Their own traditions their greatest weakness. Strange how accepting their world as fact took more imagination than a logical man could account for while accepting the outside world took more ignorance then the magical culture had rights to.

The only other problem that really took some adjusting to was that electronics did not work at Hogwarts. He had been warned of this but the utter destitute this left him in was a culture shock in itself. He was bored most of the time having to come up with more imaginative ways to spend his time than You Tube.

Hermione made fine company in his psychotic break down and she was a level convenience that he hadn't realized he missed until she willingly moved in with him.

Sherlock had never been good at sharing he had learned early that if he didn't fight for what he wanted, Mycroft would take it. But with Hermione it had been different and it quiet the epiphany when he realizes he had never mind sharing with her, not when they were children, and certainly not now. However, sharing her time was different. There was never enough time with her. Not to make up for the lost years she stole, not for all the time they spent apart, a small boy counting the minutes until he would see her again. It was always time that seemed to be against them. Sherlock is determined to make the most of what time he did have with her now.

Once upon a time it had been easier to believe that all his short comings had been of his own making. That he had created the perfect idea of companion in his head and had simply known that no one would ever measure up to his imagination. But now he understands that since he hadn't dreamt her up. It was something far more instinctual to keep himself closed off, waiting for his friend.

Even in her imperfection he admired her. She was stubborn to a fault and arrogant to boot. She knew everything and was not afraid to argue just for the sake of fact. A man's pride meant nothing in the face of fact. Sherlock still cannot fathom why she would choose to block him out of her life all her claimed reasons seem completely lacking. He had to have done something to warrant it but for everything he did remember he knew there was so much more he forgot.

He had always been able to look after himself, he had accomplished self-proficiency at a young age. Though his own family would argue this because they had never approved of his methods. He had always had a sense of economy that his relations lacked.

More was never enough in their eyes, while Sherlock's happiest memories were camping in the woods and living off the land. Learn about plants and all that nature had to offer. Hermione, had been the first person to have faith in him. She had always known he was capable, even if she in turn did not full support his more physical approach to problem solving. She had once trusted him in a way that now she apparently only trusted Harry Potter.

It was now his opportunity to steal her time. The most precious thing to him because he knew that no one can make Hermione do anything. She shared an office with him because she wanted to and for the moment that was enough.

Every day he recalled something new about her; about them.

Sometimes it was something simple like when the light caught her hair and all the colors that were woven between strands of brown. When she smiled he could see a Sea Cat with little blue flowers in her hair a wreath of forget-me-nots that her grandmother had showed her how to make. He recalled how a pen in place of a quill rested in her hand, her middle finger had a smudge of ink on the side at the top joint. The smells of her potions brewing was like being home, his favorite time of the day was when she worked in her trade. He would help with cutting and drying herbs without her asking as she worked with the portions only she could do and it was like an old rhythm between them comforting and familiar.

When she was in class Sherlock would sit in the stair way trying to crack the pattern of the changing stair case, pondered on how he and Hermione would spend summers in a tent just to collect fresh morning dew before it evaporated in the sun or how the song of the night creatures would sing them to sleep, and Sherlock would try to keep his eyes open long after she drifted to sleep afraid she would be gone all that much sooner.

Sherlock had learned patience waiting for her to come each summer. Waiting as she took time in the morning with her grandmother brewing lotions, draughts and salves. Every moment had been precious, but like now he understood that nothing was forever and when the wind changed the East wind would come and snatch up everything he found peace in.

Waiting was a skill Sherlock was rediscovering as the school year progresses. The detective did a lot of waiting.

There was something Sherlock was missing in all this. Something that kept her distant, her smile hidden from him and a shattered trust that he had no idea how to mend. She was weary of him, like a jittery kitten wound tight. He didn't remember all of it but he knew eventually he would and then he would understand why she looked at him with such uneasy sadness.

She had always been an excellent teacher he can recall her patience in teaching him to distill a potent herb in her grandmother's work room. One of the rare times she had any patience as a girl.

Now, Hermione is exactly who Sherlock had thought she would be, someone others looked up to.

She had many friends. Among the teachers and students. He was envious how easy it was for her to make friends, and he wonders at what point she had obtained this skill. Everyone avoided him particularly the lean faced young man with overly large ears and too many freckles to count that taught the plant class. School mates, Sherlock deduced. There was a mutual respect between the two that causing a queasy feeling in the pit of the detective's stomach, particularly with how easy it was for Hermione to smile in the man's presence. Hermione spent a few days a week in this man's company never extending the invitation to Sherlock. He found the lack of invitation incredibly rude yet it gave him the opportunity to explore Hogwarts, becoming familiar with paintings and coming up with new ways to irritate the irritable Argus Filch who had a particular dislike for Hermione, hence the condition of her assigned classroom.

Sherlock had overheard one of the children call the Caretaker a squib and when he asked Hermione about this wouldn't you know she sticks up for the old coot.

"It means non magical. It's disrespectful. Like you're a muggle and I'm a Mud Blood, Argus is a Squib. A delight that disappoints."

"Delight isn't exactly an adjective I would use to describe the caretaker, Hermione." Sherlock states, earning him a direct scowl.

"Squib is meant to be insulting. The wizard community doesn't keep record of Squib births because they are an ugly truth that the ministry pretends don't exist." She explains taking this all too personally.

"You're…per..fect" Sherlock tries to be comforting a skill he lacks in abundance. But the tears in her eyes make him try as she scoffs at his attempt.

"A Squib is the exact opposite of a Mud Blood. Argus was a child born to magical parents but has no magic of his own. So he is belittled in the world he was born into never feeling at home. I know Filch is not the nicest of people but promise me you'll be nice to him. The world has made him. This one and the one out there. It's not just children that are cruel, Sherlock. All I ever wanted was to help…"

Sherlock pulls her into a strong hug ending her pity party. She was always trying to save the world. Even the people not worth saving.

But Hermione Granger has never understood you can't force people to be nice or tolerate. Old dogs and all that. Besides Argus Filch was not the only old dog. Sherlock Homes was a hound and the Caretaker was on the muggle professor's list of people to irritate ever since he found out it was the caretaker that assigned offices.

The hug was to misdirect any false promises that Sherlock was not willing to make because aggravating Filch had become one of Sherlock's favorite past times and only endeared him to the poltergeist Peeve whom despised Filch in true dedication and kept the children in his class from doing anything stupid in fear of retribution.

The Caretaker being non magical really only met one thing to Sherlock.

Equal playing grounds.

Well, not really.

The lack of brains on that one and Sherlock's actions could almost be questioning in moral values. Good thing the formal detective felt comfortable dealing grey areas.

Sherlock could not find it in his heart to desist his campaign against the old crank.

The final straw for the old man was when the detective lured the man's new kitten away with a string and fake mouse via Peeves who takes full responsibility when confronted by Minerva.

Sherlock claims innocence wrapping a ribbon around the creature's neck and gifting it to Hermione for Christmas.

The imagery of Hermione with a bright smile holding the sweet, pure, white ball of fluff couldn't even sway the stern Headmistress into repossession of the feline to the nasty man. Argus was filled with accusations but nothing could be proven and as far as the cat was concerned it preferred Hermione.

But then who wouldn't.

Hermione left for Christmas eve to spend it with friends.

Sherlock was not invited.

Instead he spent the evening decorating and Christmas morning when she came home, her eyes lit up and the smile on her face was worth the trouble. He even made his first trip to Hogsmeade down the road to get Christmas Crackers thankfully a wizard joke shop sold them in the muggle section of their store.

Hermione adored her stolen kitten, Mabel, and Christmas crackers. Sherlock swears when they pulled the crackers it was the first time he heard her laugh that year. But what was truly amazing was her gift to him. A laptop that worked with magic. When she tried to explain how, he was forced to admit that he didn't comprehend her explanation. That was when she kissed his cheek and thanked him for a wonderful Christmas before heading off to bed the kitten sleeping soundly in her arms.

He had to agree that Christmas at Hogwarts was one of his better holidays.

* * *

AN: It has been a super duper busy summer for me. Thank you for staying tuned and being supportive as this has taken longer than perhaps it should. Your patience is appreciated


	7. Chapter 7

**Titillating Prospects**

Life had never been more disappointing than rooming with a sociopath and working as the potions professor at Hogwarts. The brightest witch of the age; had bigger aspirations.

She was supposed to do great things.

Instead she was terribly unhappy.

Hermione knew that all the worries and troubles that were mounting on her was nothing less than she deserved. It was all ill begotten Karma coming back to make right of her own wrongs. Her parents, Ron, what she did to Sherlock, and of course the massacre of her career at the Ministry were all prime examples of how she failed. Teaching was a fine job, for anyone else. She respected the Hogwarts professors but that did not mean she wanted to be one.

She was good at her job. The other teachers loved her, the children were in awe of her and the Head Mistress had already extended the job offering for next year. She should be happy at such a prospect; there was no finer career than shaping young minds, right? Right! So why was she so miserable about being good at something she really didn't see as a career for herself. She had big dreams of changing the world of making peace between species, of opening eyes and enlightening minds, of making the world a better place.

This was not the job she had dreamt of since she was a little girl. Nothing about chalk boards, or moody teens appealed to her sensible aspirations. She was trapped in a class room; stuck in the mundane existence of forming the future great witches and wizards as all her hard work went towards…well nothing. Her depression was mounting and while she tried to wade through her regrets, let downs, and life failures; Sherlock seemed completely ignorant of her state of mind which only made her all the more irritated.

She didn't blame him, not really, but being around him was difficult.

Sure he was a slob, personal space was a foreign concept to him, he spoke his mind even when his view points were somewhat limited, and he did routine experiment on her cat. But these were the things that made living with him tolerable. It kept things constant. Being irritated with him kept things in perspective and more importantly it kept her own natural attraction to him pint up in frustration.

It was the rare moments of tenderness that made living with him harder and harder as the weeks passed. As he became once more familiar to her; his scent and warmth comforting, the sound of his voice calming.

She had loved Sherlock Holmes for as long as she can remember, but falling in love with him…well that; she wanted nothing to do with.

Since the infatuation with Ron had worn off and logic made her realize how ill compatible they had been… she had thought she had grown out of such feelings. But it crept back up on her blooming deep inside her where she had buried it only as it grew and took form she realized this was nothing compared to what Won Won had been. Theses feeling had been there before the red head, buried much deeper taking root long before Sherlock's own rejection so long ago.

Hermione knew he didn't remember that day. It wasn't a normal summer day filled with adventures and knowledge. It had been over Christmas break a season she never before had spent with Sherlock. Her grandma had been sick, it was the winter Jean had passed away and Sherlock had been crying in the woods behind her grandmother's house.

Sherlock Holmes was easy to love… and as this stolen year, hiding away at Hogwarts, progressed Hermione knew she could not go through another year like this.

Sherlock within arms reach, yet always so ignorant on how he made her heart flutter and her skin sing to his proximity. Perhaps she was the only person in the world that understood his strange logic. Why he distanced himself from the world, yet pushed so hard to be part of hers.

He loved her, he trusted her, but in that empty way that belonged solely to him.

She had fallen in love with him all over again and before she ruined his life all over again she had to once more distance herself.

Harry was a crucial piece in this. He had been making inquires at the Ministry since the trial. It was almost a full year since her trial and people were beginning to move on. Talk about other scandals. Perhaps it was possible for Hermione to return to actual work somewhere she could help people.

Harry sat in Hog's head at the bar, his back to the door. It had taken a considerable amount of skill to leave Hogwarts undetected by Sherlock. Sherlock loved visiting the wizard village and it was difficult to leave him anywhere as his favorite spot was at her side.

Or so he would often claim.

"Hello." Hermione says leaning over and kissing her friend's cheek. Harry hugs her tightly smiling before they both take their seats. "So? What did you find out?" Hermione asked, straight to business.

"You're not going to like it." Harry warned her.

"I'm sure it will be fine. At this point I don't care if I'm in the Owlery…"

Harry looked doubtful before saying somewhat hesitantly. "So Head of Magic Law Enforcement is fine."

Hermione looked shocked. "I don't understand what happened to Marcia McDonald? It has only been a year."

"Yeh…Well Kingsley was not happy with how the division was being ran. He actually approached me about having you come back and take the position. It will all be hush, hush, hush. Marica will be offered a new job or a severance package. The choice is ultimately hers."

Hermione looked shocked. This was certainly not what she had been expecting. "I…"

"I know how you feel about law enforcement. I get it really… after everything at Hogwarts…but this job…Hermione you know you would be wonderful…besides you would be my boss." He smiled trying to sell it hard to her. This was the third time she had been offered this position and she hardly felt worthy of it.

"Can I think about it?" She asked.

Harry nodded. "Kingsley is looking so it would be best if you let us know by the end of the week. Owl me, ok?"

She nodded processing everything only half listening as Harry changed the subject. Her mind couldn't get pass the sudden realization that her happy news would upset the balance of Sherlock's make shift world of two.

Minerva took the news well. She smiled and congratulated Hermione on the prospect of returning to the Ministry, but there was something in the cold silence between words that Hermione could read the Headmistress' disappointment.

"Well I can see your mind is made up, so it seems I must find two new professors before the beginning of next year." McGonagall stated in that practiced off hand way that came with authority.

Hermione paused at the door her hand on the door knob; she internally cursed knowing where this was going. Still she asked; curiously winning out. "Two. Whatever for?" Hermione kept her tone natural, the twitch of an eye brow on her old Transfiguration professor told her, she already knew the answer.

"Muggle studies of course. After the last test scores, in your young man's classes and with you leaving it would appear that, perhaps, Mr. Holmes is not as comfortable fit as I had hoped."

Hermione scowled she couldn't help it, why was she hearing about this now, when she was so close to escaping. "Test scores? What do you mean?" The one question was her undoing.

 **3;9,4;4,5;5,6;7,7;2=27**

There was yelling. Lots of it and some of it made no sense but his aloof expression and demeanor body language simply set her off in a downward spiral that she couldn't seem to rationalized.

"Twenty-seven students, Sherlock! You only have twenty-seven students and all of them are failing your class!? How is that even possible?" She screeched.

Sherlock sat taller his posture immaculate and he opened his mouth to answer but she cut him off with another prompt rant.

"The curriculum is very standard, there is nothing so unimaginable to justify every one of your students failing, unless you as a professor are the problem." She has begun to pace with wide hand gestures. "And, let's face it, you are always the problem! Your mightier than thou complex has no place in a classroom. Don't you get it? You are, in many cases, the first muggle many of these children meet and you have to set a better example than…." She waved him over, like everything about him was in some way flawed.

Again he attempted to explain but he didn't get a word in; she was too wound up. "You have to inspire young minds show them that the muggle world is capable and exciting. How remarkable it is for life to move forward and that greatness can be achieved without magic. That the imagination is not limited by the pureblood's ideals of supremacy. This is the calling of the Muggle Professor; to build a bridges between cultures and at the very least an open young minds to the possibility of new adventures. You have to teach them that new isn't necessary bad. And if magic should fail you still have reasoning and problem solving."

Sherlock makes a gesture of agreement with his hand. "That is what I did. The final was just that a standardized I.Q. test designed to show that intellect is more important than a wooden stick. It was eighty percent of their final grade. It is hardly my fault that no one got over a 115. These students are supposed special or chosen or something but no one scored over a threshold of average intelligence."

"115 is above average!"

"An argument able topic; 85 to 115 is standard average. For a gifted set of students to pass, it is fair for their test scores to fall within the gifted or at the very least above average intellect frame." Sherlock rationally presents waving her off like she was speaking nonsense.

"Why are you infuriating! How!?...You can't use a standardized muggle test on magical children and expect the same labeling of talent within the grading process. That is just not logical." Hermione argued.

Sherlock looked confused. "You are always preaching about equality and yet you reprimand me for promoting just that. These test are designed to measure genetic intelligence. So it hardly stands that culture differences would play a role in such testing."

"No? There is significant difference in scoring of IQ testing across cultures and race it has fueled the whole nature verses nurture debate. The magical community have different values in standard education than the muggle world. As pointed out in one of your curriculum bullet points that you clearly did not bother to read."

"I read them." Sherlock claimed, Hermione shot him a look that clearly stated she didn't believe him. "Ok I ripped them up and used them as fire kindling." He admitted.

"I won't be here next year to babysit you." She blurts out, catching him off guard. This is easier than feeling what she does, her heart hammering in her chest. She just wants to grasp ahold of him and kiss some sense in that warped head of his. This thought makes her pause and she realizes it's already too late she is in love with him. Just like that, perhaps always like that; from the first moment she saw him getting beat up by someone three times his size and him smiling up at them with so much bravery that she didn't fully understand. She couldn't do this anymore. Play house with him. All the games and make believe, in the end it hurt because she could almost believe he had it in him to fall in love with her. It had always been a game; a stalemate as they faced each other down. Daring one another to take the final leap, whoever did would be the loser. She had already lost once by way of a stolen kiss in the woods. She would not let him do that to her again.

She always lost, she wasn't as strong as him.

"We shouldn't live together anymore." She tells him, He looks confused by her statement. But he does not say a word. He stands there catatonic unmoving or speaking as she gathers her things and her cat and leaves.

By dinner, she is gone and Sherlock is once more alone.

 **In need of a friend**

In need of distance, Hermione did not move to her office in the dungeons, she moved home to her quaint little cottage by the sea. She uses Apparation to travel between jobs and home. The invigorating walk from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts every other day gave her time to clear her mind of anything but school. And her work at the Ministry kept her so busy the rest of the time that she had no time to linger on unwanted emotion and personal obligation. She fell asleep exhausted and woke up energized for what the work filled day had to offer. It was easy of avoid Sherlock as she knew his schedule as thoroughly as he knew hers. She never went out of her way to avoid him, that would have been childish, but she did not make it a point to seek him out either. It seemed, however, that he was playing the victim going so far as befriend Neville to sleuth information from a man the former detective had loudly announce incompetent. Neville was too smart for that and her friend played the part well making it easier to avoid her former roommate.

Harry was well in supply of lectures and advice. He didn't outright say it but he was concerned with her overactive schedule. He even went as far in attempt to set her up on a blind date.

Ron came around once or twice with Harry and while their break up had been mutual it seemed the red head teetered on awkwardness. It was strange; since before she had returned to Hogwarts nothing had changed between them, a comfortable familiar relationship of cordial friendship had always been easier than a supposed romance.

"He wants your blessing to get married." Harry tells her one day at dinner.

Hermione is happy for Ron. "Then tell him he has it, though why my particular blessing should matter, I'm at a lost for. He is always the one to make it weird, like I have suffered from our break up? Poor Hermione no one will ever love her but Ron Weasley?" She oohed jokingly, knowing that is exactly how Ron saw the world, particularly after realizing she was a girl. It was ridiculous that after all this time this was how he behaved.

"No one is at a doubt of your prowess. We both know how he is…he makes everything awkward and weird but that is because he cares. The goof." Harry acknowledges. "beside he doesn't know that you have moved on, hasn't seen it with his own eyes. You have been rather busy as of late."

Hermione glared at her best friend. "I like being busy, you know that."

"I do." Harry acknowledges. "Neville says, Sherlock is having a hard time of it."

Hermione looks away, "Neville tells me he has finally taken his job seriously. That the students enjoy muggle studies and that Sherlock has convinced many of the teachers to incorporate a week of muggle equivalence in their class rooms. Neville is having the kinds grow their own herb gardens."

Harry looks impressed. "What of transfiguration? How does that equate?"

"They are building a book case, I think using recyclable goods." Hermione shares. "Most of the teachers are pretty excited about it."

"How about you, what are you doing in potions?" Harry asks.

"Home remedies, we will use the herbs they grow in Herboloigy, and covering basic first aid." Hermione explains.

"That is truly genus. Was this your idea or his?" Harry wondered aloud.

"His." She preened clearly proud of Mr. Holmes for stepping up to the challenge she left him.

"What happened?" Harry finally asked after weeks of working up the courage.

Hermione looked down at her hands her fingers threaded together. "It makes more sense to work from home having so much expected of me right now. Sherlock needed space, to figure out what he wanted."

"Did he say that?"

Hermine shook her head. "No he would play house forever, happy in the comfort of familiarity. But sometimes what you want is not what you need."

Harry reaches out and tilts her head up to look him in the eyes. She swears she sees his green eyes twinkle as he says almost knowingly. "Yet sometimes, what you need is exactly what you want."

* * *

A.N. Damit! I know what color Harry's eyes are... sorry... fixed!


	8. Chapter 8

**Strategy**

He was in the headmistress's office again.

And from her composure, it was evident that Sherlock was about to get sacked. As always there was a professional air. Her poster and dress was straight and pristine but it was the wringing of her hands and pacing that indicated a guilty conscious for the verdict she was about to deliver.

This intrigued the muggle professor.

Sherlock had spent the recently freed hours of his time trying to come up with a failsafe should this issue occur. The library at Hogwarts was quite resourceful. Its knowledge ranging from beauty charms to advance Arithmancy and everything in between. Including wizarding laws; muggle statutes. It was relevant that he familiarizes himself with these laws if he was going to remain in Hermione's world. What it boiled down to was that he had to offer the wizarding world something to be a part of it; his knowledge or a child. Either would ensure his permanent status within the closed knit magic community protecting him from the Statute of Secrecy.

If he lost his job, now, he would lose his place in the wizarding community and all his memories from the past year of Hermione. There was no reason for the Ministry of Magic to allow him to keep his precious memories if he was not muggles professor. Since he had not fathered a witch or wizard his rights within the community were not under an anchored obligation. The ministry would only see him as a threat particularly after being fired; what if he wanted revenge.

Sherlock Holmes was too much of a liability to retain his memory.

The muggle professor couldn't begin to contemplate what all of this would mean for his sanity.

He would find a way to stay on at Hogwarts. He had to keep the one connection he had to the woman he love…d

Sherlock's brain stopped on the word, processing it in the span of a second and he smiled. "I love her." He said aloud earning an endearing look from Headmistress McGonagall.

"I know." She affirms, all the practical reasons he could not keep his job, hung mutely in the air. Neither of them spoke as the Headmistress regarded him kindly. He was trying to come up with something to say.

Unable to look at her he surveyed the office, realizing he had nothing to say; no clever words of persuasion or explanation. His mind too consumed with what ifs to slow down and think logically.

Realizing this, Minerva McGonagall continues, sounding remorseful as she finished up her point coming closer to the inevitable finally of him losing everything that ever mattered.

Sherlock was half listening to all the reasons he was an unfit professor. He couldn't seem to stop smiling though the action was more of a quirt of the lips than a full out grin. Everything was very practical in this hard woman's office. From the furnishings to the objects on her desk. No knick-knacks or personal touches of any kind. Sherlock was familiar with the wall behind her desk filled with portraits of past Head Masters and Head Mistress. Most sat straight backed in their chairs nodding with support as the current Head Mistress reprimanded him.

Sherlock could put names to most of them, his scrutiny landed on the only painting that hadn't moved during any of his visits. The old man with a white beard, sat relaxed slumped in his chair, his fingers laced together resting on his stomach. His hat partly askew and his long beard thrown over a shoulder. He appeared to be sleeping, his chest rising and falling in rhythm. Hermione spoke of Albus Dumbledore with great respect. While Sherlock had read much about him and his legacy, it was evident the past Head Master was a fantastic actor. Dumbledore's breathing was too practice and his face too tight to be asleep. He was playing possum, and when one of his blue eyes flipped it open for a moment and then closed quickly Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed. The former detective wondered what game the sly wizard was playing.

Sherlock was clutching at straw, his head whirling with any possible reason he could give the Head Mistress to allow him to keep his job. His attention drifted from the old man's painting to what seemed to be the inevitable. He stared blankly at the headmistress desk which was littered with red torn up paper. There's something to be said about losing everything one cares about and then be faced with the prospect of it happening again, it could make a lesser man desperate. McGonagall was wrapping up her well-rehearsed speech. The guilt settling into acceptance at her word validating that this course of action was a necessary evil.

The crimson pile of howlers all ripped up on her desk seemed larger than his pro-quo usual complaints. While Head Mistress McGonagall had become very acquainted with howlers over the past year mainly due to him, Sherlock couldn't help but analyst the current heap of red paper. Logically it didn't make sense for there to be more, over the past semester. He had done a good job. The students liked his class and the attendant list had already tripled from last year's elective to the coming one. Students were eager to learn about a whole society they were taught to fear.

These were not old Howlers, some were still roughly intact so they had been delivered recently.

Sherlock thought of Hermione and what she had said that made him try harder as a professor.

He was the first muggle many of these children would meet. Suddenly he understood it all.

What was the point of doing a good job if he is going to lose everything for it? He stepped up his game and the parents of these children had rage against his improvements more so than they had against his failures; making him even more bewildered over this backwards culture. It clicked. Muggle studies, as far as this community was concerned, just didn't matter. Therefore, the perpetual cycle of prejudice and ignorance keeps spinning.

Thousands of years of prejudice and she had the answer. He was the answer. The one person in magical world that could solve centuries of prejudices. It would take time but in a decade or two…it would all work out.

Merlin, he thinks the colloquial term, Hermione was always right.

Hadn't he figured that out by now?

Sherlock understood the only way to break the cycle was to intercept it and push it on a different course.

You had to get them young, and corrupt their minds. Turning them away from tradition.

Just as he had done with Hermione and she had done to him. He taught her to embrace adventure and she had taught him that some people were worth the effort.

This is why Hermione struggled to get anything accomplished in her Ministry of Magic. It was run by adults too set in traditional bigotry to allow her new ideas and logical approach of the world to take root and bloom.

She needed a new generation of free thinkers unafraid of change.

And Sherlock could help with that.

Sherlock hadn't thought it possible to care as much as he suddenly did about anything. Now that he understood, he had the potential to make a real difference somewhere in the world. All he wanted was the chance to live up to the challenge.

Hermione had always tried to help him be the best version of himself. Something he struggled with on his own. His own frustration in his inability to make real change. He solved a murder and there was always another one after that. Teaching at Hogwarts was where he was meant to be and he wouldn't be going anywhere.

He knew exactly what to say to save everything dear to him.

The Head Mistress was finishing up her long list of reasons and a single inquiry leading her to fire him gave him the opening he needed.

"Therefore, you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Holmes…" There wasn't a pause the words; your services will no longer be necessary simply got cut off as Sherlock's eyes narrow and he proceeded to save his job. It all came together like poetry, "I understand completely, Madame. While the wonders of Hogwarts live up to every expectation in academics, you have fully realized that system implemented at Hogwarts is flawed. Impressable children grow up isolated in family settings from a wide world of forbidden culture, then they are sent off to school isolated in the vast beauty of the highlands. Yet the system does not prepare them to interact and live beside the other muggle majority of the population. No wonder Hermione felt so secluded…I only recall when she was in her second year…the term mudblood came up… I have often told her that ignorance begets ignorance."

"Mr. Holmes…" Mistress McGonagall tried to cut in, "Our school is on the forefront of equality…"

"Yes, Yes but your system is flawed." He tells her very bluntly. "Sorting liked minded people in to houses at the very young age of eleven then expect them to grow and flourish in the wake of their own self-fulfilling prophecy. How is anyone ever to learn something new if they are not forced outside of their comfort zone?" It is a thirteen-year-old Hermione's words coming out of Sherlock's mouth and he isn't about to stop. "What if there were no magic or a witch or wizard was not particularly good at magic? How do these kids learn to cope without such convenience, or lack of grounded fact? Or more importantly how do any of them learn to think critically and solve problems without magic, or to explore the possibility that perhaps magic is not always the answer. I see your point, that while some might see muggle studies as a pox on your educational system, you have realized due to my excellent teaching that muggle studies is the perfect place for all young witches and wizards to learn to accept none magical folk as well as their own limitations. Where else would many of these children have the opportunity since many are never required to learn about muggles…or even more interact with them."

"Mr. Holmes I can assure you that…"

"Oh, Oh, rest assured Minerva I have, after long deliberation, have decided that I'll do it!" He exclaims cutting her off again.

"Do what? Exactly?" She asks, clearly confused.

"Teach all seven years. It will be hard to juggle a more rigid schedule but I'm willing to do it. Madame, I understand how your own past pains have influenced your decision, not wanting others to suffer the same heart break of worlds divided. That is why you hired me. You saw more readily what Hermione and I have and while you loath to admit it you have a bit of a romantic side. You see that making muggle studies a required course is the first step in a long and trying path of change and enlightenment. You are truly a strong and forward thinking educator, putting the need of the future generation over popular opinion. And making it possible for me to be with my own love." He played the part well with his baby blues and pouty lip. Looking the part of a man in love like on the tele.

Minerva McGonagall had a pinched expression, she was following along just fine and while she did not appreciate being played there was merit in his words. Sherlock could read this clearly as he watched her come to terms with the only decision that benefited either of them. A small quirk of her lips was the only indication of her good humor. "Very well Mr. Holmes." She is eerily calm. "As you might imagine this new plan of ours will be quiet consuming. I don't know when I will find the time to fill any empty teaching spots as I try to iron out the finer details of such a proposal. Therefore, I will leave it to you to convince our current Potion Professor the severity of staying on here at Hogwarts." Her expression is one of complete candor and it is check mate. Sherlock nods compliantly and they both smirks when Minerva dismisses him. Sherlock is already plotting to get Hermione to realize she didn't belong at the Ministry behind a desk unappreciated. She belonged at Hogwarts with him shaping a better future.

* * *

Hermione became quite accomplished at avoiding him and before he knew it he was on train headed back to London without confronting her. There were plenty of near misses and the Headmistress made it a point to remind him of his promise before end of term. He couldn't comprehend what he had done to warrant such devoted scorn on Hermione's part. Wasn't he as important to her as she was to him? Why would she once more cut him out of her life when things were going so well. Seven months of playing house only made him realize that he didn't want to play, or perhaps that it never was make believe. He belonged with her and she belonged with him. Why did she have to make it so complicated?

221B Baker Street looked the same. The trusting old building with Mrs. Hudson shrieking at his sudden arrival, fussing over him like she hadn't seen him in months.

His apartment is just as he left it, completely unremarkable. His and John's chairs facing each other in front of the fire place, the yellow smiling face riddled with bullet holes, and a pile of unread mail on the sofa and he finds himself missing his large office with a balcony and small touches of femininity.

The place smelled off, musky and dry. And it was too dark, he walked over throwing open the curtains deciding that perhaps he should tidy up.

His email is just as forbearing, so he does the only logical thing to be done and deletes it all. He will work on new cases as they come. But it seems London has moved on from him after a week on no new emails concerning cases. Finds himself making lesson plans for the looming new term as he struggles to figure out how to get a hold of Hermione.

John stops by one or twice surprised by the cleanliness of his apartment. The doctor doesn't stay long his own obligations kept him busy with his medical practice and new family. Sherlock realizes he finally understands what lonely feels like so he begins to spends most of his days at the Leaky Cauldron; the only place Sherlock can hope to run into someone that can get him to Hermione.

After asking about her for the fourth week in a row the patrons of the pub become even more indrawn and ill-mannered then when the muggle man first began to harass the owner. Dean was not friendly and while Sherlock wasn't sure the man knew who Hermione was he was similar in age making it more than probable they had gone to school together. But the man's dead tone expression gave very little hope to the detective. It was John that showed up with a friendly smile for Dean and a reproaching look for his colleague after Sherlock had enough loitering deciding to find his answers at the bottom of a bottle.

It didn't take much to get the former detective drunk, with is current 'ah balderdash' mentality, throwing back another shot and shouted his short comings to the whole bar. He was slurring words and those nearby were snickering at him when the doctor showed up. John helped Sherlock out to the car where the muggle professor promptly passed out in the back seat.

"Oi!" A tall, gangly dark haired man with a long-freckled face called out. After insuring that all of Sherlock was in the car John closed the door before turning to give the man his full attention looking irritated. "Take him here." The man says handing John an address card before heading back inside.

"Wait! This can't be right." John says and the man pauses at the entrance turning back with a look of confidence. "This is his parent's address." John tries to explain.

The man shrugs then nods reassuring looking completely serious. "Yeh… When in doubt, I find retracing my steps to be a wise place to begin. Good luck." He says with a nod going back inside.

"No! you don't…understand." John yells after the man. But the stranger doesn't acknowledge Mr. Watson's destress as the door shuts behind him. The doctor stands alone in the dark curing to himself for a good five minutes before thinking 'screw it', getting in the car and driving Sherlock to his childhood home.

* * *

Sherlock awakes with a headache and instinctively takes the aspirin on the nightstand next to the glass of water. 'Nope that's defiantly not water' Sherlock thinks as the vodka burns down his throat. That is when he realizes what bed he is in and where. "Shit!" he curses aloud shutting his eyes hoping it was all a horrible nightmare.

Nope he is in his childhood bed, and can't remember a thing from the night before. How he got this far out of London without remembering, was beyond him, but Dr. Watson had a lot to answer for. Sherlock can hear his mum in the kitchen and makes the quick decision to climb out the window and down the side of the house. His feet hit the ground and he is already looking for a vehicle to hot wire when he sees the smoke rising from the across the field and past the wooded area behind his parent's house.

This causes him to pause and consider what his eyes are seeing. Because no one has lived up there, not since Jean Reau's passing. The locals believed it haunted, Sherlock had always assumed that Jean's family couldn't bring themselves to sell it. That was very real smoke and since the deed had never been found…perhaps…

He can feel it… intuition telling him she is there. Hermione is there just beyond the field a short walk through the woods.

Never mind what brought him here to his parent's house. Impulse got his body moving breaking out in a full-on sprint.

His feet remembered the way and without any real thought they began to take him down that familiar path. When he could smell, the ocean breeze he became aware of the nerves coiling uncharacteristically in his stomach. When he made it to the little cottage neatly tended, with a garden in the back, a white cat resting on the porch Sherlock's heart was hammering in his chest and it had nothing to do with physical exertion.

He could see her through the window arguing with the dark haired Harry Potter. She looked irate. There was a sadness in her expression, that on anyone else Sherlock would misinterpret. But he had spent the last year studying Hermione Granger and the muggle professor could see, just from the dullness of her eyes that her hope was on fire. Harry Potter must have seen it too because he reaches over and pulls her into a strong hug, the tension of her shoulders began to relax, then shake. Hermione is sobbing and Sherlock is at the door his hand on the door handle. He can see them through the window, he watches Harry kiss Hermione's head and her fingers curl in, gripping him closer. It had never occurred to the former detective that perhaps they were…lov…together. Hermione did think highly of Mr. Potter, his mention in every conversation.

Sherlock's eye brows furrow in consideration. He stuffs his hands in his pockets walking backwards retreating into the woods.

It was there tearing at his insides. Sherlock had felt it before when Harry Potter was mentioned but where it had just been a twinge of uncertainly, now it spread like rapid fire. Sherlock is forced to recognize this must be what jealousy must feel like.

He is stomping through the woods unable to focus and calm his erratic heart.

Argh! Emotions, he tried to purge them from his life and here they burst forth with a single consideration that in hind's sight should have been apparent. The signs had been there so why hadn't he…

Sherlock knew why, because admitting it would mean admitting that he lov…Hermione was…

Argh! Emotions!

Sherlock trampled deeper into the woods than he intended. He forced his mind into the present taking in the trees in full bloom, the stillness of the air and sound of wild life. He knew this place. Just as he knew the full extent of these woods from his childhood adventures.

There laying on its side covered in moss with new forest growth was a fallen birch tree. It was a perfect perch for a tired traveler or stage for an auspicious story teller. This was where it had all started, and he can see how his whole life had banked on one little beetle. He had boosted to John that no one had made him; that he, Sherlock Holmes had made himself. No that had never happened; not aloud anyways. Still his inward bragging had not been true, it had been a self-conceded admission that the devil on one shoulder and the absence of his conscious on the other had lead him into this self-destructive path.

The beetle catches his eye, crawling across the bark of the fallen tree her vibrant colors draw his eyes and he is caught in a memory he had forgotten:

Mycroft had seen to the morality of a young Sherlock's education by reading The Progress of Continental Law in the Nineteenth Century, quoting bible scripture of God's wrath, and the morality of young women in Fordyce's Sermons after the discovery of Hermione's existence. Mycroft was always diligent in correcting his way ward little brother; leaving Sherlock confused and bit put off by the respectability of society.

Never mind such ideals hadn't regularly been promoted in hundreds of years. A young boy isolated hardly could discern such things.

So when Red Beard died and Jean Reau followed a few weeks later, the later becoming somewhat a mentor in herbalism to the teenager. It was understandable for Sherlock to find comfort in the familiar solace of the woods as he struggled with the theological teachings of his older brother.

He had been contemplating the very reality that all things die. When Hermione found him her red puffy eyes indicating she had been crying. They were fourteen and it was the middle of winter, Christmas was around the corner, she must have been on break from her third year at private school. The trees were barren and the air was cold. They both were appropriately dressed in wool coats and sturdy boots. She wasn't wearing a dress but jeans and her hair was tucked under a red hat with yellow accents a matching scarf around her neck. She didn't look like herself. Not his Sea Cat but a different girl with her solemn eyes. "I'm sorry to hear about Red Beard. Me`Me` had told me before she passed. He was a fine friend." She says and when Sherlock doesn't answer she fishes into her coat and pulls out a little book. "Here…She wanted you to have it." It was all of Jean Reau's recipes.

He silently took it thumbing through them, "Why would I want these?" He scoffed. Unable to take his eyes off the ground. He had hoped she would come, had realized that something more was there in his heart and it scared him.

He could hear her shrug, her coat making a shuffle sound then she is sitting next to him and he can feel her hesitation. He wants her to put her arm around him, he wants her to leave him alone and stop making him feel this vulnerable. He wonders why he is overjoy to see her, and so angry to think this might be the last time they ever cross paths. Logically in the way Mycroft instilled she would have no reason to ever return to this provincialvillage, not with her grandmother gone. It hurt to think about losing her too.

Then she kisses him. Her grip on his coat is strong as she pulls him towards their lips meet.

It is his first kiss and his hearts sings telling him that he loves her, then his mind catches up and a voice sounding oddly like Mycroft is reading a passage from Fordyce's Sermonsencourage female subjugation to male preferences and if this is what love means it is not what he wants for his friend. So he pushes her away and snickers in bad form.

"Interesting…six years and quite a bit of work on my part and all it takes is a simple death to get a snog. I had expected less, I suppose but in way of observation of the finer sex it's good to see that all my time has not been completely wasted." He forces his tone into that demeaning and patronizing note that Mycroft has perfected.

She looks confused and insulted.

Good.

"It was all an experiment, and you were my rat." Sherlock tells her harshly, she springs up on her feet facing him with anger and renewed tears in her eyes.

He had expected her put him in his place; perhaps a clean slap or a lecture in that mightier than thou way that would cleans her soul. But she just looks terribly sad and hurt staring at him silently under furrowed eye-brows. Before declaring loudly "Boys!" and storming off back in the direction of her grandmother's cottage.

The next day he watched from his room as Mycroft shooed her way. His own heart breaking as his mind comforts him reminding him that it was better this way.

Sherlock doesn't see her again for three years though he thinks about her often. He loses himself in his studies determined to major in chemistry. He has already started university when the Claude Joseph Vernet exhibit comes to London. The paintings of his ancestor brought a sense of nostalgic remembrance in a young Sherlock's admiration for pirates.

And as if fated Hermione is standing in front of the painting Shipwrecked looking pensive. She is wearing a blue dress reminiscent of summer oddly fitting of the occasion. He can't bring himself to approach her, spending the evening watching her examine each painting in turn. She is alone and does not leave until he works up the courage to approach her, him dragging her into a secluded area. She is unsurprised gaining the upper hand poking him in the neck with something hard. "Wrong move." She growls and then her expression softens. "Sherlock?" She looks concerned to see him and Sherlock watches as she works through something internally, she looks about panicking. Then pushes off him and aims a stick at him and yells stupefy. His body is not his own as it slumps to the ground the tip of her stick glows and from there everything about her becomes fuzzy, until the leaky cauldron years later.

It's all there like a final trigger that unlocks all the regressed memories and Sherlock finally understands fully. Perhaps he was at fault after all.

The woods have not changed much over the years but the two children that had found solace in them had.

Harry Potter didn't matter, Sherlock had to tell Hermione, had to explain what it all meant. What they meant to each other.

He sprints back to the cottage banging on the door he is calm and knows the words that need to be said. What he should have said all those years ago.

Hermione answers her door her expression irritated by his presence. He forces his body in the door way afraid she will slam it in his face. "I remember. I remember you kissing me and what I said. I was cruel and lost you because in a twisted way I wanted to protect you. I had thought loving you would make you less of what you are, that I would be caging you. It was something Mycroft said…." Sherlock trailed off, shaking his head. "I love you. I always have. I will be at Hogwarts making real change in a world that needs it. I hope you will join me." He tells her, not waiting for an answer, suddenly to cowardly. He turns and darts off the porch before she can crush all his newly formed dreams running all the way back to his parents' house before hot wiring their jeep and driving back to London.

He tries not to think too much, had she wanted she would have ran after him. Instead he is left wondering what her rejection means for his sanity.

* * *

A.N. Life is life. Hopefully I can update sooner, One more chapter to go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hope on Fire**

Life never does anything by halves. It's either a raging storm or a quiet interlude. Everyone has problems and currently, Hermione Granger had more than her fair share. Between the raging political battle lines at the ministry, Harry's unwavering advice, Ron's circus of a wedding, and McGonagall's cold silence: Hermione was overwhelmed.

She had always had a great compacity to prioritize and logically work through a problem. Rationally being the backbone of her hope, fueling hard work and determination. She had always believed if she tried her best she could move mountains, or at the very least teach others to be the best version of themselves.

Taking the management position at the ministry had been her second chance. The opportunity to prove that all her hard work was relevant and that the people; if given the opportunity would make the right choices.

But what she truly learned as the Head of Magical Law Enforcement was that her faith in humanity was miss placed.

Those in power always chose corrupt greed over the well fare of the community.

Society ran on the fueled ambition of others; humanity be dammed.

There was no such thing as magical brethren or equality of magical beings. Everything Hermione had believed was the unrealistic hopes of a child and did not exist anywhere in the world.

Humanity was corrupt.

Sherlock had been right, she had been wrong.

Everything she had tried to do for the greater good had been pointless.

Her own melancholy inward examination was interrupted by Sherlock banging on her door and his declaration of love.

She had not thought it possible, for him to love thus with the want of physicality and the implied promise of something he had voiced so loudly against…a family…emotions…romance…words she had scarcely imagined he comprehended.

And it had been easier that way, to love simply.

Love: a single word that encompassed millions of definitions.

Her and Sherlock, like, her and Harry: Family without blood. This she understood. Perhaps it was she who was lacked definition for the illogical way that Sherlock made her feel.

She had thought she loved Ron romantically. He had always made her stomach flip and she had thought it was attraction only to realize, after everything, it was pure nerves and the stress he put on her sensibility made her jittery and uneasy.

Sherlock, however, had kept her rooted and twisted up inside at the same time.

She had been in shock during Sherlock's confession. Even now she struggled to fully process everything that was happening around her and inside her.

 _It seems her emotional rage could be maxed out after_ all, Hermione thinks silently to herself.

Then the blustering laughs of Harry Potter interrupts her pondering; It's a deep belly laugh with tears streaming down his face.

She glares at her dearest friend which only makes him laugh harder.

She is quick to irritation. "This is not funny!" she commands, her tone demanding he stop his laughter at once.

But Harry only removes his glasses and dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief continuing his chortling.

She watches him wearily as he struggles to reign his humor in, then, "The two of you trying to protect each other, might be the funniest thing I have ever seen. How can the two smartest people I have ever met be so clueless. You're over complicating it, Hermione." He bluntly observes.

Hermione immediately goes defensive, "What, exactly am I over complicating?" she questions with a raised eyebrow.

"Everything!" Harry Potter declares adjusting his glasses on his nose. "It is so easy," He assures with a smile. She continues to glare at him. "You are miserable at the ministry, so quit. You enjoyed teaching, so teach. You love Sherlock, so marry him."

"Not so easy." She grinds out behind her teeth. "I have responsibilities I must consider. It's not all as black and white as you claim." She rages.

Harry shoots her a reproaching look.

Hermione opens her mouth to continue to argue when Harry put this hand up stopping her, "You need to look at all this with a different perspective than the dutiful, stubborn girl I love. Sometimes things don't work out the way you thought they would, sometimes they work out better than that you can plan. You only must have the courage to embrace change. Consider all your options fully, and pick the one that will make you happy. That is all any of us want for you." Harry encourages with a small smile and a tilt of his head.

Hermione scowls turning away from Harry. "I wish it were so easy. But there is still work that needs to be done at the Ministry. Work that only I…"

Harry scoffs. "You have dedicated twelve years of your life to the reform of the Ministry and you have succeeded in a way that no one else could!" He tells her exasperated. "You started out in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures you literally rewrote the book on treatment and regulation of non-human magical beings…"

"…Yes…but…" Hermione tried to interject.

"You then moved to Magical Law enforcement where your reforms have already changed many lives." He continues.

"You're over exaggerating…"

"No, I'm not. You are amazing and the Ministry doesn't deserve you. Hermione, you under appreciate the magnitude of change you have already made. How can you be so blind to all that you have already accomplished?"

"Accomplished?" She scoffed. "There are more compromises then reforms in old thought law. Perpetuated by the cynical minds than know nothing of the world beyond the prison they have built for themselves. True changing and growth impossible to take root in the soiled beliefs of those too long in this world, holding our community back. Ten years…I've wasted on an unwinnable war."

"You're wrong; your compromises had planted a seed of hope within our generation. Breathed a possible future of co-existence between the magical and muggle and given muggle born a foot hold in both worlds. Hermione, you are the bridge between the mundane and magical. What you have accomplished is extraordinary! I see the fear in their eyes, I hear the whispers in the shadows. There are many in the ministry who are older than Dumbledore. They remember a different time were caution kept them alive and their families safe…"

"I know all that." She interrupts. "The last witch imprisoned was in 1897. The witch/ wizard life expectancy in Great Britain is 137. The oldest wizard ever recorded was 755 and he died in 1991. With a longer life span comes longer grudges. It's hard to forget and forgive such hatred, and I'm not asking them to…I'm asking for them recognize that errors have occurred and that ignorance will not make things better. Understanding the threat is the only way to neutralize it. And muggles have changed. The disbelief in the supernatural has made living out there among them possible."

"With him." Harry states, stopping any retort as Hermione stands there gaping at her friend. Then he asks, "What would you do, Hermione Granger, if you didn't need to solve the problems of the world?"

She considers this silently with serious contemplation.

She feels her heart in her throat and the first response that pops in her head is a desire that she has tried to hide even from herself for so long that it brings tears to her eyes.

Harry's bright green eyes and small smile is all the encouragement she needs to follow her new dream.

 **Train of Life**

The Ministry had accepted her resignation without rebuff, Harry stepped into her position pleasing the political powers. The poster boy for defeating evil was now in charge of the Law enforcement division. Ron's wedding had been lovely and Hermione was pleased to see him so happy.

Head McGonagall accepted her back at Hogwarts with a courtly nod and knowing smirk. Hermione was given the office Sherlock and she shared the previous year. It was just as she left it and there was a sense of coming home when she walked through the door.

She could have gone to Sherlock, after all she knew where to find him, but she didn't.

Waiting for him at Hogwarts, wanting to see his expression when he came and saw her seemed a far more rewarding choice.

He came with the students, his eyes alight with wonder at his surroundings pulling a smile from Hermione's somber expression as she watches him. When their eyes meet he looks so relieved to see her that he smiles back. Then he pushes his way to the front and walks up to the teacher's table, Neville offers his seat to Sherlock, who quietly takes it with a friendly nod. Hermione can feel the tension radiating off him. When he is seated, she reaches over and takes his hand in hers without hesitation his fingers intertwine with hers with intensity.

They are both professionals and their air of decorum holds until they are alone in Merrythought's old office, Sherlock's luggage had been brought up as Hermione had instructed.

The moment the door shuts Sherlock's hands are in her hair and his mouth is on hers. Their actions are the words they have yet to say, the ones that are the hardest to voice.

Words come later, after actions have made clear what they mean to each other.

Words are what follow when he suddenly gets up and fishes a ring out of his coat pocket then returns to her side, "Mycroft use to read me scripture of gods wrath and the damnation for my sins. The East Wind was always apart of his sermons, he would use it to scare me..." Sherlock explains dully, kissing her cheek.

"You are the East Wind, Hermione. Your righteous fury ripping through my life propelling me towards the potential you have always seen, my conscious. I find our methods of keeping each other safe flawed. It has become clear that to keep each other safe what is needed is for us to be together…will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Hermione is curled up in his embrace, she nods and kisses him. Sherlock takes her hand in his and slowly places the beautiful Amber ring with silver metal work, on her finger.

"I think becoming your wife prudent if only to keep an eye on you." She says, teasingly as she admires the workmanship of the ring. That is when she notices the little beetle with beautiful colors preserved perfectly in the amber. This is the path they had always been on, only now see comprehends how much Sherlock has always loved her.

 **Epilogue**

Time is a concept that comes with age. Understanding the rewarding comprehension of time in correlation to patience happens when you see your life's work become fruition.

This is realized by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes when Cathar Lisben is elected as Minister of Magic.

And real change begins to happen.

It is because of Cathar Lisben's policies, that their eldest daughter, who has no magic, finds peace in both the worlds she was born into.

* * *

A.N: Done! Off to watch season four of Sherlock...I told myself I couldn't watch it until I finished this story! Motivation!

Thank you for reading.


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